


SASO BR5 Dump

by stephanericher



Series: SASO 17 [21]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fivesome - M/M/M/M/M, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-22 03:19:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 112
Words: 48,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13158156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: all the sfw knb stuff i wrote for saso br5





	1. kagahimu, lifeguard station roof

  
“Tatsuya?”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Taiga scowls, bracing himself against the wall, feeling the cheap roof of the lifeguard station give just a little to make him nervous as he pushes himself up. It groans under the weight of him, but doesn’t bend or crack, and Tatsuya’s already up here, lying back and looking up at the sky. It’s not quite as smoggy as it is in the city, but it’s still pretty fucking polluted and there’s not so much in the way of visibility. The moon’s out in the other direction, so there’s nothing but dark blank above them, weakly dotted with the few stars and planets that break through.   
  
“Could have told me which station.”  
  
“You found me, though,” says Tatsuya, a half-smile in the dark.   
  
The wash of the waves is constant in the background; Taiga only hears it when he’s thinking about it and it lapses into the background when he thinks more about Tatsuya, lying down and looking up at him, his hand on Taiga’s.  
  
“Drink this,” says Tatsuya, passing something into Taiga’s hands, a liquor bottle. Taiga opens it and sniffs; it smells repugnant, probably cheap vodka (the shit Tatsuya thinks makes him tough to drink without gagging).   
  
“No thanks,” says Taiga. “How the hell am I supposed to get down?”  
  
“I didn’t say half the bottle,” says Tatsuya, though from the feel of things, the way Taiga can make out the liquid sloshing inside, he’s already taken care of that much.   
  
“Are you drunk?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Tatsuya.”  
  
“If you think you know the answer, don’t ask the question,” says Tatsuya.   
  
This is about the draft, isn’t it? Another question Taiga’s not going to ask. The question of Tatsuya staying in college, playing more ball, honing his skills, of Taiga leaving for the NBA because he’s, well, ready. Everyone goes at their own pace, but Taiga’s pretty sure that’s going to sound patronizing to Tatsuya, coming from him especially (even if it’s true). But this isn’t about that, really, is it? Okay, it is, because with Tatsuya it’s always about basketball even when it’s about the two of them, because the two of them have always been about basketball and Tatsuya and basketball go back further than Tatsuya and Taiga, and because, well, everything. It’s so fucking complicated, but it always was; Taiga just hadn’t known back then. But this is about them, because the two of them and basketball always leads back to the two of them, just the two of them (paradoxical, yeah; Taiga takes a sip of the vodka and has to try very hard not to spit it out; Tatsuya laughs and Taiga doesn’t want to flip him the bird because, well).   
  
“Tatsuya,” Taiga says, putting the bottle of vodka beside him, rolling over until they’re facing each other (it’s hard to see Tatsuya in the low light, but he can see the razors of those cheekbones and the soft wariness in his eye). “You know, even if I end up in, like, Toronto, I’m still yours.”  
  
He reaches, clumsy, the edges of Tatsuya’s neck, the chain around it they’d both tried to stop wearing but couldn’t, tangles his fingers. He’s not going to say that he’d been Tatsuya’s when he’d gone to Tokyo, when he’d been back here and Tatsuya was in Akita; he doesn’t fucking have to (and it’s going to hurt both of them, slice in a tender way only they know, at things they want to be higher than).   
  
“You won’t be in Toronto,” says Tatsuya. “Their pick’s going to be too late.”  
  
Taiga’s fingers, still woven into the necklace, brush at Tatsuya’s cheek. It’s dry, but the smile Tatsuya gives is soft, his lips still wet, probably still numb with alcohol.


	2. garciraki, dr who au

She says she’s the doctor (which doctor?) as if it’s self-evident, as if Masako should already know. And Masako would call her annoyingly pretentious which, maybe she is, but this fucking police box of all things (time and relative whatever—this doctor talks too damn fast) that seems to have arrived straight from some British crime show is, apparently, a hell of a lot bigger on the inside. Masako’s still not quite sure how all of this works, how there’s apparently an apartment twice the size of hers in here, but it had somehow crash-landed right in the middle of the street court while Masako had been getting her minutes in, and, well. Here she is, trusting this stranger enough to come into her funhouse call box.  
  
“Hey, Masako? Can you help me out a bit?”  
  
Masako turns (this person shouldn’t be so familiar with her; they barely know each other—and yet Masako’s not all that bothered behind the surface, maybe because the doctor’s friendly in an unsuspicious way, or maybe because she looks foreign). The doctor’s got some weird gadget thing in her hand with some sort of flashlight on the end, shining it toward the top of what looks like a control panel.  
  
“With what?”  
  
“Do you have any experience fixing things?”  
  
“Motorcycles.”  
  
“I love motorcycles!” says the doctor, clapping her hands and nearly shining the flashlight in Masako’s eyes; Masako flinches back.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” says the doctor. “Here, if you could just—hand me that screw right there?”  
  
Masako’s got no idea what her own expertise has to do with this; the doctor hasn’t even asked her to hold the flashlight (apparently a flashlight slash screwdriver; with the beam still on the doctor begins to turn the screw in tightly).  
  
“Will you be able to leave once this is done?” says Masako.   
  
(She doesn’t mean to sound impatient; this doctor is quite nice to look at, lovely smile and legs for days. Masako wouldn’t really mind if she kept crashing this thing in the middle of Masako’s practice sessions, as long as they didn’t happen too often—fuck, maybe that sounds thirsty or sleazy, but it’s just in her head.)  
  
“Yeah, that’s the plan,” says the doctor.  
  
When the door shuts behind her and the time and relative thing takes off—Masako hadn’t fucking signed up for this at all.  
  
“Welcome aboard,” says the doctor.  
  
Masako just gapes; after a few seconds she says something stupid about at least getting her basketball or a change of clothes because her brain’s kind of frozen at the moment.


	3. aokuro, photo booth

Standing in line for the photo booth is starting to feel like a terrible idea. Like, it hadn’t been a good one from the start, but Tetsu had wanted it so Daiki had said yes, and now here they are, still in line what feels like half an hour later. Daiki’s trying not to tap his foot, but Tetsu’s already giving him a look of absolute disapproval.   
  
“It’s been ten minutes, Aomine-kun.”  
  
“We’re at a party,” says Daiki. “I want to party.”  
  
“This is partying,” says Tetsu.  
  
At least all the other people in line seem to agree. Daiki’s never done any of these photo booth things, cheap prop clothes and a roll of physical photos that you stick on the fridge or something until they fall off or get stained by food. But Tetsu doesn’t ask for much, and when he does he basically coerces Daiki into doing whatever thing, and in the grand scheme waiting in line isn’t that bad. At least he can spend the whole time pretending his phone’s dead and looking at Tetsu, because he always looks cute but in a striped shirt and jeans, the fashion Nikes that Kagami or Furihata had dragged him out to buy (Daiki’s got to thank those guys for their positive influence on Tetsu’s fashion sense, or maybe he won’t; maybe he’ll just look at Tetsu for a little while longer). Tetsu’s looking back; his eyes are blank and Daiki can’t really tell what’s behind them, but he’s pretty sure Tetsu thinks he’s cute, too.   
  
“You’re not cute, Aomine-kun,” says Tetsu.  
  
“I’m very cute,” says Daiki.  
  
Tetsu pretends to ignore him; the line’s moving them closer. They’re two away; the people in front of them are digging through the prop bin and one of them pulls out a clown wig.   
  
“That would look good on you,” says Daiki.  
  
“I think it might be more appropriate for you,” says Tetsu.  
  
Daiki squints; there’s a stupid top hat he might want to wear, plastic with a brim that’s tearing in two at the end, an oversize telephone, a feather boa. The people in the booth giggle as they leave; the next ones get in and there they are, a pair of oversized sunglasses. Tetsu plucks them out of the bin and puts them on and fuck. It’s ridiculous but Tetsu’s so small it looks cute anyway.  
  
“Do I look like Midorima-kun?”  
  
Daiki snorts. “Send him the picture. He’ll love it.”  
  
That’s a smile dragging at the corners of Tetsu’s mouth. Daiki kisses him as soon as they get into the booth; the shutter sounds as he’s wrapping the feather boa around both of them. His hat’s falling off in the second picture; Tetsu’s pushing up his glasses and Daiki’s mugging in the third. In the fourth, they’re leaning in and smiling, both of them—that’s the one Daiki leaves at his eye level on the fridge, so he can grin at it when he passes it in the morning.


	4. aohimu, shotgun wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aomine's trans in this
> 
> idk if this is the real name of a chapel but i amused myself

A few days after he’d tested positive, a few days before now, Daiki had decided they should go to Vegas and get married. There had been so much to process (if anyone is proposing in this situation, shouldn’t it be Tatsuya? Is this even a proposal as much as a decision? Is this what people mean by pregnancy making someone crazy? Tatsuya’s still not done processing that he’s going to be a father— and sure this was always a possibility but it’s not like it had actually felt like it until it had happened, and Tatsuya’s never even thought about this beyond vague conceptions of maybe someday if there’s a time he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be shit father, and, well, he’s got a lot of work over the next few months and basically forever, to remedy that) that Tatsuya couldn’t even muster up the right question.  
  
“Why Vegas? You can’t drink.”  
  
“I want to see you drunker than me,” says Daiki. “This is my chance.”  
  
That still doesn’t explain it really, but Tatsuya can’t think of any reason to back out, any reason for them not to enjoy the trip (when they have a kid they won’t get to do this kind of thing like, ever) and it’s not like he doesn’t want to marry Daiki, it’s just. It’s a lot.  
  
At least he falls asleep on the plane despite his restless mind; Daiki looks at him but doesn’t really say much but the weight of his arm is still familiar and comfortable over Tatsuya’s shoulders and he falls asleep thinking about that, about how Daiki should be the nervous one and yet—it’s all him.   
  
And here they are, in a tacky Elvis wedding chapel (“Something Blue Hawaiian”) that Tatsuya would have chosen if he was completely sober, shoved into separate dressing rooms for the sake of tradition or something (nothing about this is particularly traditional, even though it’s a cliche). Tatsuya’s has a veil on the table, the name of the chapel clearly printed on the bottom in case anyone tries to steal it. Tatsuya snorts; this is the something borrowed, isn’t it? Come to think of it, the necklace he’s wearing is old and the ring Daiki had bought him (rhinestone, a step up from vending machine quality but not by much—he’d promised to get Tatsuya a real one when they had time to choose, even though Tatsuya’s not sure he wants to wear one in the first place; another necklace invites too many comparisons he doesn’t want to make and, shit, he’s drunk) is new. Blue, though? That might be Daiki himself, and at the knock at the door Tatsuya decides he’s going to have to be.  
  
“Hello,” Daiki says. “My beautiful bride.”  
  
He cups Tatsuya’s cheek and kisses him, pulling the veil over his face.   
  
“You know, we don’t have to do this,” says Tatsuya. “We don’t have to get married; whether we do or we don’t you don’t have to keep the baby.”  
  
Daiki lifts the veil off again, and for a few seconds just stares into Tatsuya’s face; Tatsuya suddenly feels overexposed like a photo taken with the wrong white balance under the floodlights.   
  
“I know,” he says. “Shit, Tatsuya, I’m, like. Nervous doesn’t even begin, but I just thought if you…or that you’d want, I don’t know. I’m scared out of my mind; I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing, but…just because I’m scared doesn’t mean I’m going to back out. Maybe it’s the situation that made me actually go for it, but I’ve been thinking about asking you to marry me for a while. Maybe it was kind of taking advantage since you were already freaking out; I don’t know.”  
  
Oh.   
  
“Shit. I guess I’ve been too busy thinking about myself.”  
  
“It’s hard not to, you know?” says Daiki.  
  
He’s the one who’s fucking pregnant here; Tatsuya’s got no excuse.   
  
“Do you want this?” says Daiki.  
  
Tatsuya’s still not sure, but he’ll wait around forever if it’s for something like that. “I don’t want to be a shitty husband. Or a shitty father.”  
  
“Hey,” says Daiki. “You won’t be, okay?”  
  
It’s easier to reject this kind of statement most of the time, but this time Tatsuya chooses to believe it. He takes Daiki’s offered hand and flips the veil back over his face.   
  
“Let’s get in line.”


	5. mayuaka, jade ring

This is stupid; Mayuzumi could list the reasons why it is. It’s the kind of situation that ends up working out in fiction, a comical misunderstanding that the protagonist had brought his love interest an engagement ring even though there aren’t even diamonds on this thing. It’s just a gaudy jade stone, something that had made Mayuzumi think of Akashi and impulsively buy it. He’s not an impulse buyer; he never does shit like this. He’s turning into one of those gross saps he used to sit near in class and roll his eyes at, the ones who had asked in hushed tones about whether their significant other would like such and such they bought (and Mayuzumi had always thought they’d mostly just been rubbing their relationship status in everyone’s faces, but still).   
  
He’s got ten minutes; he can flake out. Say he’d forgotten something, that he’d gone to the wrong place (but ten minutes is more like three when Akashi’s concerned; he’s always early and he’ll fucking know when Mayuzumi lies, the way he always seems to know everything, fucking spy). Akashi already knows; he won’t mistake it for an engagement ring. It’s way too gaudy a stone for Akashi to ever wear, though, even on a necklace or a bracelet. It’s just dumb is all. It’s all Akashi’s fault Mayuzumi acts so dumb around him, anyway.  
  
“Ah, Mayuzumi. It’s good to see you.”  
  
Fuck. At least the ring is buried deep in Mayuzumi’s pocket. Akashi slides a chocolate croissant over to Mayuzumi’s side of the table and, well, he shouldn’t eat this richly so much but he’s going to, and Akashi will be happy (so maybe he shouldn’t, since when has he been concerned with filling Akashi’s desires in that sort of way). He’s like some pathetic side character, the annoying one who the heroine rejects after the first act.   
  
“I have something for you,” says Akashi, reaching into his bag and pulling out a novel.  
  
It’s an author Mayuzumi recognizes, more literary than he usually goes for, but the cover’s interesting; he flips it over and reads the blurb—a high school student, a young woman unsure of her path in life. It does sound pretty good.  
  
“Thanks,” says Mayuzumi. “I have something for you, too.”  
  
“Oh?” says Akashi.  
  
Well, fuck; he’s said it now. Mayuzumi reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ring, placing it in front of Akashi on the table.  
  
“I know it’s not really something you’d wear; it’s kind of tacky—”  
  
“I like it,” says Akashi, and slides it onto his right ring finger.


	6. mayuaka, cell phone

Akashi gets the password on the first try, but that has nothing to do with his intellect. He’s pretty sure the whole world would guess that Mayuzumi’s phone opens to RINGO (even without knowing him; his lock screen background is also a picture of her). Akashi’s not jealous of a two-dimensional girl; she’s not real and he’s not sure he’d even want Mayuzumi to put his picture as a lock screen. Still, he thumbs through the settings and changes the password to SEIJUUROU. It's a bit more secure, at least; the phone buzzes with alerts from some rhythm game and Akashi dismisses them. He wonders how long Mayuzumi will take in the shower, and then locks the phone, pulling the covers over him. He’s got his own phone to check, emails to answer, and things to keep up with.   
  
Mayuzumi eyes his own phone warily when he comes back. “Did you fuck with it?”  
  
“I made it more secure.”  
  
Mayuzumi grabs it and punches in the passcode through muscle memory. The phone, of course, does not unlock.  
“What the fuck, Akashi.”  
  
Akashi shrugs. “You’ll figure it out.”  
  
“You didn’t—“ Mayuzumi types in what Akashi assumes is his given name, and it must be because Mayuzumi seems satisfied with the outcome. “Self-centered much?”  
  
“Would someone guess it from your phone background?”  
  
Mayuzumi snorts. “I’m glad you’re concerned about the security of my piece of shit phone no one would care about stealing.”  
  
“I’ll buy you a better one if you’d like.”  
  
(Akashi’s offered many times; Mayuzumi’s never said yes, partially out of a ridiculous sense of pride, though it’s not like Akashi’s got someone else he’d rather spend the money on, and partially out of some stubborn attachment to a phone he loves to complain about.)   
  
“Would you let me set my own password?”  
  
“Would you set something more secure?”  
  
Mayuzumi huffs. “I won’t let anyone mug me.”  
  
Akashi raises his eyebrows.   
  
“I’m fine with this,” says Mayuzumi, and sticks his phone back in its charger.   
  
Akashi doesn’t say anything about how he clearly hasn't reset the password back to RINGO. That would not be prudent of him. He scrolls through emails that he doesn’t have to answer until tomorrow (tomorrow afternoon, anyway, keep them waiting). Mayuzumi turns off his bedside lamp and burrows under the covers; Akashi opens up Amazon in a new tab. Mayuzumi’s getting a new phone whether he wants it or not.


	7. shuu & teppei, friendship

Shuuzou in the waiting room is not an unusual sight, waiting to see his father as always. He’s a dutiful son, making up for lost time but not particularly penitent; he wants to do this. It’s a little bit admirable, if family values were things that Teppei really had, though he does mark it down in his mind to call his grandparents again. And Shuuzou’s a creative guy; his primary method of teaching himself better English is through sports magazines, _ESPN_ and _Sports Illustrated_ and today’s choice, _Slam_. Teppei sits down beside him (God, these chairs are fucking uncomfortable) and Shuuzou glances up.  
  
“Yo.”  
  
“Hey,” says Teppei. “Won’t let you in yet?"  
  
“Not yet visiting hours,” says Shuuzou with a shrug. “I figured as much. You think the nurses will listen to you?”  
  
“Probably,” says Teppei. “But we’ve only got fifteen more minutes.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” says Shuuzou, flipping the page of his magazine.   
  
There’s a player in a red jersey, twirling a basketball on her finger, a few insets of her actually playing, an awkward-looking jump shot with a caption Teppei doesn’t feel like deciphering. He points to it.  
  
“What does that say?”  
  
“Rodriguez’s unconventional J has helped her to the top of the Pac-12 in field goal percentage.”  
  
“Huh,” says Teppei.   
  
“The article’s just talking about how she wasn’t like, a big time recruit, but now it’s looking like she's going to be drafted first round.”  
  
“WNBA?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Shuuzou. “Kinda cool. Want to read?"  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Shuuzou shrugs, flipping through a little more; his English has gotten a lot better since Teppei had first run into him here, between the follow up MRI and his room; they’d held up the whole hallways with their chat but it had been pretty nice to find another native Japanese speaker around his age (even if he’s ended up as more of Shuuzou’s father’s friend by virtue of circumstances). It’s weird that they’re here, Teppei set to go back to Japan and finish high school and Shuuzou set to go to college, most likely for basketball despite how much he downplays it, Kagami as their sometimes-companion. Teppei supposes this isn’t really how he’d thought this was going to go, but it’s not a terrible way to be, waiting for visiting hours and looking at basketball pictures over Shuuzou’s shoulder. It’s a hell of a lot better than his last hospital stint had been, anyway.


	8. haikaganijihimu, box of kittens

  
It’s raining, and Shougo’s arm is getting sore from holding up the umbrella. It’s hard to keep himself under it as well as the box of small kittens, old enough to be separated from their mother but only just (at least, Shougo thinks; he doesn’t have much experience with young animals). Taiga had left him and make sure no one else had taken them, claiming he’d go get the car; why he couldn’t just call Tatsuya or a cab or something is beyond Shougo, but whatever. He sighs; the nearest kitten turns its face up at him and meows.  
  
“I don’t have food for you.”  
  
The kitten doesn’t seem to care; Shougo reaches his free hand down; it’s damp but that doesn’t stop the kittens from rubbing up against it or trying to lick it.  
  
“Don’t fucking bite me; I hope you don’t have rabies.”  
  
None of the four of them seem to care, though they’re not biting for now. The black one rubs its forehead against Shougo’s finger (god they’re so tiny!) and one of the tabbies sniffs at him, suddenly a little unsure. Where the fuck is Taiga, anyway?   
  
He’s carrying the larger umbrella when he appears, waving to Shougo. Shougo doesn’t really have a free hand to wave back, so he just waits until Taiga’s closer.  
  
“Bonded already?”  
  
“Ha ha,” says Shougo. “You want to pick up the box?”  
  
Shougo wipes his kitten drool covered hand on his pants and adjusts the umbrella over his own head, not that it makes much a difference. The kittens are huddled together now; Shougo supposes he wouldn’t want to be carried like that either, but whatever.   
  
“Shuuzou’s not happy.”  
  
Shougo snorts. “No kidding. What about Tatsuya?”  
  
“He drove us.”  
  
They slide the umbrellas under the seat of Tatsuya’s SUV and get into the back, the box of kittens in the middle. Shuuzou, in the passenger’s seat, has his arms crossed, clearly aimed at both Taiga and Shougo (and maybe Tatsuya, too).  
  
“We’re not keeping all of them.”  
  
Shougo scowls; he’s not picking favorites out of these kittens—he’s not the kind of guy who’s obsessed with their cuteness or anything, but it’s a little unfair to give them to some potentially dodgy owners.   
  
“Hey,” says Taiga. “They’re all cute; they’ve been separated from their mother.”  
  
“That’s what happens to cats,” says Shuuzou.  
  
Tatsuya says nothing, increasing the speed of the windshield wipers; the tabbies have curled up and gone to sleep and both the black cat and the one with the orange spot are peering out of the box, and looking right at Shuuzou. Shuuzou sighs and drags a hand over his face; he’s losing and he’s already been outvoted (Shougo knows that look well enough).   
  
“Fine. You win, but I’m not doing the bulk of the work.”   
  
“Thanks, Shuuzou,” says Taiga, leaning forward to pick him on the cheek.   
  
Shougo grins at him, reaching over to scratch the black kitten’s head again (it sneezes but then leans into the touch).


	9. garciraki, spies au

Alex jams the door shut behind her; there’s no one else in here for now, and it’ll stay that way until they get done (even if someone calls maintenance, it might take them a while to get there, long enough for the two of them to finish up this phase).   
  
“Why do I have to carry the purse again?” says Masako.  
  
“It goes better with your outfit. You can show up with a suit and a big bag like you’ve just come from work. I, on the other hand…”  
  
Alex gestures at her dress, long and slinky, sculpted around her ass and then letting out just enough with a slit up the side that ends halfway up her thigh. Enough to catch anyone’s attention, but not in a way that’s more than looking at a gorgeous woman (not that Masako’s so fond of other people looking at Alex like that, but it’s not like Alex is going to do much with them other than maybe blow their head off). She pulls the thigh holster and the revolver out of her bag, searching for the bullet case before loading the revolver, thumbing the magazine from chamber to chamber, pointed at the stall ahead. From the other side, Alex watches her, leaning on her elbow (her neck looks so damn long with her hair done up like that). She reaches for the holster, but Masako stops her wrist.  
  
“Let me.”  
  
She doesn’t need to see Alex’s wicked grin to know it’s there, but it’s not like Masako’s not smiling, either as she places the loaded revolver on the edge of the sink. Alex nudges the slit on her dress upward and raises her left leg up onto the counter. Masako unbuckles the holster, holds it firm to the top of Alex’s thigh and winds it inward (if her knuckles brush against Alex’s other thigh and her underwear, well, it’s just because it’s close quarters they’re working in; she can feel Alex suck in her breath and see her bite her lip. They don’t have time to do much more than that (Masako buckles the holster in place and then leans across to kiss Alex quickly before she stuffs the slim gun in, right where the dress will skim over it, a few risky centimeters above where the slit begins.   
  
“You ready?” says Alex, taking her leg down (there’s barely any indication at all of the metal and leather underneath her dress).  
  
“When you are,” says Masako, hoisting the purse over her arm and turning toward the door.   
  
Alex pretends to adjust her makeup in the mirror; Masako unjams the door and heads out.


	10. harafuru, bubblegum pop

“Your fault,” says Hara. “You got too close to my bubble.”  
  
“You’re the one who blew it,” says Furuhashi.   
  
(Like Furuhashi didn’t know it was coming; Hara had been opening his mouth to blow it and all of a sudden Furuhashi had descended, like he’d been trying to get the sensation of kissing Hara with the bubble between them—or suffocate Hara with bubble gum, which, please, he’s going to have to try harder than that.)  
  
“Maybe your hair’s greasy enough to for it to come out,” says Hara, pulling at the bubble gum, which of course does not budge from Furuhashi’s hair.  
  
“I wash my hair every other day,” says Furuhashi, and of all his blatant lies this might be one of the more egregious.  
  
“Doesn’t, like, peanut butter help?" Hara says, and Furuhashi shrugs (where the hell is Yamazaki when you need him).   
  
It had only gotten into a square of Furuhashi’s bangs, kind of amazing that it hadn’t gotten anywhere else, but they’re not going to be able to go anywhere with Furuhashi’s hair like this (if Hara lends him a hat it’ll likely get covered in gum, which, ew; gum is gross when it’s not in your mouth).  
  
Hara unwraps another piece and adds it to what he’s already got; Furuhashi had taken a god chunk with him and if Hara wasn’t already annoyed about Furuhashi’s hair he’d be annoyed because of that (gum’s expensive; Hara can afford it but it’s the principle of the thing).   
  
“We’re going to have to cut it out,” says Hara, patting Furuhashi’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”  
  
Furuhashi looks alarmed, but come on. Does Hara look that bad? He cuts his bangs long; it’s not like he’s going to shave Furuhashi’s head (Furuhashi’s still his boyfriend and Hara’s going to have to look at him; he’s not going to want to change too much at once—though they should see if they can cut Hanamiya’s hair in his sleep; that would be funny as fuck; Hara files it away for the next time they have a team road trip). There’s a pair of nail scissors in his bag, he surveys Furuhashi critically.  
  
“Stand still.”  
  
Furuhashi miraculously obeys, and Hara snips off the gum-covered hair. So Furuhashi has half a set of bangs now, and it does look kind of weird. Hara snickers.   
  
“You look cute.”  
  
(He does, even if he also looks stupid—but it’s Furuhashi, so.)  
  
Hara leans in to kiss him, and this time he keeps his gum securely in one cheek.


	11. muramido, shellfish allergy

A five-star seafood restaurant was perhaps not the place they should have made reservations for, given Murasakibara’s newfound shellfish allergy. They’d made the reservation months in advance, before it had been diagnosed, and at the time Midorima didn’t want to bring it up. A bit later, he’d asked if Murasakibara had wanted to cancel it, but Murasakibara had shrugged and said he’d wanted tuna anyway.   
  
Maybe he wants tuna, the seared ahi steak he’s ordered, but the plate of appetizers sits between them, juicy cocktail shrimp and oysters in the shell over ice, clams and scallops and mussels and lobster tails. Midorima’s mouth is watering; he’d ordered a half plate but there’s no way he can finish it himself, and now ay he can eat any of it with the way Murasakibara’s staring. This had been a bad idea, a miscalculation.  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Midorima.   
  
“I’ll eat some,” says Murasakibara.  
  
“No,” says Midorima. “Do you have a death wish? Your throat could close.”  
  
“I have my EpiPen,” says Murasakibara. “And you’re a doctor.”  
  
“That’s the last line of defense,” says Midorima. “We don’t want to risk it.”  
  
“What if you kiss me after you eat it?” says Murasakibara.  
  
Shit. Midorima hates being that customer, but it’s worth it if Murasakibara’s safe; he signals to the waiter. “I’m sorry, I think we ordered the wrong thing. Can you take it back, please? We’ll play in full, no problem.”  
  
The waiter hesitates, but nods. Midorima’s not sure if he should explain the allergy (will they get shellfish on the rest of the food?) or just leave it at that; Murasakibara sighs when the waiter clears it away. Midorima takes a sip of wine; it’s not at all filling but it will have to do for now. They have their main dishes, the vegetable sides, none of them mentioning any type of shellfish on the menu, but. Just in case.  
  
“Stop worrying,” says Murasakibara. “It’s not a big allergy, okay?”  
  
Midorima nods. “It was…insensitive of me, though.”  
  
Murasakibara shrugs. “I would have ordered it. I wouldn’t kiss you, though.”  
  
Midorima supposes he has more restraint than Murasakibara, at least when it comes to food, though he does love oysters (if it’s life or oysters, he’s not on death row). Murasakibara’s hand brushes Midorima’s knee under the table; he doesn’t look particularly angry. Just hungry, which is a mutual feeling, at least for the moment.


	12. momoriko, onsen

Satsuki folds her towel up and places it behind her head like a pillow, leaning back against it, adjusting her hair so it doesn’t get in the way (she hates wearing it up, but getting it wet is such a damn pain). Riko’s a little late, but Satsuki wouldn’t mind just relaxing in here, alone for a while. It’s awfully convenient to go up here on an off weekend, to a place that’s well-rated; there are a bunch of old men muttering about their aches and pains (they seem so touched about Satsuki and Riko being there, something about young people these days not appreciating hot springs the way they should) but there’s no one else on the women’s side.  
  
Satsuki unfurls her legs and sighs; this was an excellent idea if she says so herself. She’s tight from ramping up her training, an ultimately positive effect of spending more time with Riko (which includes going to the gym together); maybe she's turning into one of those old men who complains all the time. She hears the sound of footsteps behind her, soft on the floor; she tilts her head back and there’s Riko, upside-down.  
  
“Your boobs are out of the water,” she says.  
  
“Do you mind?” says Satsuki.  
  
Riko flushes; Satsuki can see the color spread, pinker than bathroom tiles. She’s too fucking cute. “Well. I’m just saying.”  
  
The steam hides most of it (and it’s not like the water would hide much more, and Satsuki’s not one for fake modesty), and it’s not anything Riko hasn’t seen or touched before.   
  
Satsuki closes her eyes and adjusts her position again; she hears the sound of Riko’s towel being dropped to the ground beside her and then cracks an eye. Riko’s climbing into the baths, completely naked and wow. Satsuki tries not tho stare, but the lighting’s too good and, well. Riko’s abs, Riko’s hips, Riko’s thighs. She’ll never get tired of looking.  
  
“Hey,” says Riko. “I didn’t stare at you.”  
  
“You weren't here,” says Satsuki. “You know what they say about early birds.”  
  
“Are you calling me a worm?”  
  
Satsuki grins. “Nope. But you’re worth waiting for.”  
  
Riko huffs; her blush definitely isn’t just from the steam, silhouetting and blurring her face.   
  
“Come here,” says Satsuki.  
  
Riko scoots over; her hand lands on Satsuki’s thigh, right at the fold of skin where it meets her hip, cocking one eyebrow. Satsuki shivers in the hot water, and then leans forward. Her hair’s falling out of its bun; let it drag into the water and get wet. Kissing Riko is way more important.


	13. kisehimu, on the rooftop

Tatsuya turns the slip of paper over in his hand, the familiar messy writing of Kise Ryouta, a scrawled message to meet him on the roof deck of their apartment building, shoved under Tatsuya’s door earlier that day. It’s not like Kise to be this cryptic; he’s not necessarily up front about things like this, but if he wants something he’ll come after it. Usually, but then how well does Tatsuya know Kise and how much is he projecting over that pretty face, that chameleon skillset?   
  
The wind picks up, and Tatsuya sits back on the lounge chair; this deck furniture is lousy. How much longer is Kise going to make him wait? He hears what he thinks is the elevator dinging as it reaches this level; it could be Kise but it could be someone else. Tatsuya slips the request into his pocket.  
  
“Oh, Himuro-san, you’re here.”  
  
“As you requested,” Tatsuya says. “Good afternoon.”  
  
“Good evening,” says Kise (the time is debatable, but Tatsuya lets it slide, looking more closely at Kise’s face, though it remains mostly indecipherable).   
  
Tatsuya smiles, halfway vacant face, and waits.  
  
“So, you’re probably wondering why I asked you here,” says Kise, sitting down in the lounge chair next to Tatsuya’s and frowning. “Ugh, how can you sit in this?”  
  
“It’s not terrible if you get used to it, though with what we paid it’s…not optimal,” says Tatsuya.   
  
“Anyway,” says Kise, and then he lapses into silence.  
  
Tatsuya watches him, the beautiful profile, the perfect features, the flicker in his yellow eyes like the flame at the head of a match. He’d imagined, for a second, that Kise had asked him here to ask him on a date, like they’re high schoolers or something of the sort, young and inexperienced, and that Kise’s nervous. But this is Kise; he doesn’t get nervous about these things—Tatsuya supposes if this is something he’d really wanted, he’d have asked out Kise already by now. But then, he’s used to others giving chase, and maybe Kise is, too; maybe Kise’s been waiting. It seems odd, this premise, but maybe Kise’s trying to catch him off guard. Tatsuya leans across the arm of the chair; they’re tilted toward each other, half-arranged. Kise turns, and Tatsuya presses their mouths together.   
  
“That’s what you wanted, right?”  
  
Kise nods (and so he’d made Tatsuya chase in the end, make the first move—it’s not like he hadn’t known Kise had wanted him).


	14. murahimu, summoning circle au

Tatsuya wipes the chalk on his jeams; there’s nothing especially magic about it. That’s the beauty; it’s not in the instrument. It’s in the words he says; it’s in the power he wields, the demon he summons. Demons can imbue those who summon them with powers, if they choose; if those who summon them use the correct name, if they control them correctly—well, control has never been an issue with Tatsuya (then again, he’s never wielded that much power himself; that’s why he’s summoning a demon, after all). Tatsuya’s chosen carefully, a demon whose name appears in lore several times over, the ancient books that no one uses anymore. Atsushi, yielder of thunder in his hands, strength, rawness. He has torn weak people apart who have attempted to summon him. Tatsuya’s not weak, but he’s not stupid; he’s just willing to take the risk (if he can’t handle that he doesn’t deserve the power anyway).  
  
Tatsuya surveys the circle; the points and symbols are correct pertaining to a demon of Atsushi’s level (or at least the last one known to the books). He closes his eyes and begins to chant, the words he’s listened to scratchy recordings of, in order to get the ancient intonations just exactly right, bits and pieces, one over the other—until, he opens his eyes, claps his hands, and says the name.  
  
The demon begins to materialize with a screeching sort of sound and oh, God, the windows; Tatsuya’s lease; his neighbors—and then, like the feedback on a microphone, it reaches its loudest point and dies away. And there he is, truly inhuman, almost a foot taller (if not more) than Tatsuya, long purple hair framing his face, large hands trying to rip through the circle.   
  
He glares at Tatsuya, as if trying to size him up; Tatsuya looks back. Atsushi is actually, despite reports of his fearsome appearance, quite good-looking. (He’s a demon, Tatsuya reminds himself. He’s supposed to be strong; he’s supposed to have a wingspan that almost crosses the whole of Tatsuya’s tiny living room.   
  
“What do you want?” he says.  
  
Shit. Maybe Tatsuya had gotten this wrong; maybe he’d chosen the wrong inflection; maybe the reason Atsushi’s vanished from the books is because he’d ceased to be useful—but then, he still has the power. A demon’s power never vanishes, never depletes.   
  
“Power,” says Tatsuya.   
  
“No,” says Atsushi.  
  
Well, no one ever said Tatsuya didn’t like a good challenge.


	15. nijihai, parenthood

Shougo still can't fucking believe it. He looks down at the papers in his hand, all signed, thinks back at how they’d walked into the courtroom, taken a picture with the judge, all three of them. It’s official now even though they’ve been family for a long time, family with the caveat that the foster system could rear one of its uglier heads and move Heaven to some other house, the care of her birth father’s family even though they want nothing to do with her.   
  
Heaven’s always been ambivalent about her name, and so she can be a grouchy kid a lot of the time—but Shougo’s going to be as sappy as he damn well pleases today, because she’s brought a hell of a lot into his and Shuuzou’s lives since they’d decided they were going to try another foster kid, hope that everything turned out okay, and this is more than okay. They’d ended up with a great kid, a great kid who’s theirs officially and forever. Shougo had tried not to break down in the courtroom or the car and mostly succeeded, turned around to ruffle Heaven’s hair in the backseat and tell her how proud he is and see her halfway roll her eyes. But now, shit; he doesn’t have to keep it together in front of his kid or his partner; he’s just. God. So fucking overwhelmed—more than draft day, more than any stupid basketball thing, more than anything with Shuuzou even.  
  
“Hey, there’s more cake,” Shuuzou says, pulling Shougo in for a hug and smacking his cheek. “You okay?”  
  
This is so embarrassing, but Shougo doesn’t even care; he buries his face in Shuuzou’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut.   
  
“I know,” says Shuuzou, his voice a little hoarse. “I know. But hey, they’re legit. You’ve been looking at those papers long enough, and your daughter’s kind of on a sugar high.”  
  
“Whose fault is that?” says Shougo, blinking the tears back.  
  
“Well, I’m not the one who ordered it with double buttercream icing, just saying,” says Shuuzou, lightly bumping Shougo’s hip.  
  
The TV’s on in the den, baseball again, Jays-Braves; Shougo sits down on the couch and scoops Heaven into his lap.  
  
“Hey,” she says. “I can’t reach my cake.”  
  
“Guess I’ll have to eat it then.”  
  
“Dad,” she whines, but he picks up the plate and hands it back to her.   
  
The sound of Shuuzou’s camera shutter goes off; they both make faces at it—Shuuzou loves taking pictures, and neither Shougo nor Heaven has the patience for too many of them. But Shuuzou smiles at both of them anyway, and Shougo smiles back; he can’t see Heaven’s face from this angle but she’s probably smiling, too, and they might as well let Shuuzou get away with taking another one.


	16. murahimu, monster!atsushi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eating candy wrappers, monster/human, etc

Atsushi criticizes Tatsuya a little too often for someone whose pockets he’s picking, whose leftovers he’s eating and who he’s mooching off of, but Tatsuya supposes he could just stop if it becomes too much. He’s feeling a little vindictive and he knows banana’s Atsushi’s least favorite flavor of Hi-Chew, so he grabs two packs. Dried squid (do monsters need protein?), dried mango (do monsters need fiber?), sour cream and onion chips, milk flavored Pocky, those cheap corn snacks Atsushi loves (one of every flavor), Everyburger, Meltykiss, a couple of chocolate bars. That should do it, Tatsuya decides, before throwing in a couple of cans of coffee and a mango Hi-Chew for himself (that he’ll probably end up sharing with Atsushi, because he doesn’t need all the empty calories).   
  
“You’ll get mice,” Atsushi says, his voice wafting out from under Tatsuya’s bed and somehow engulfing the room.  
  
“Won’t you eat them?” says Tatsuya.  
  
“Gross,” says Atsushi, and Tatsuya can hear him chewing on dried squid. “Bring me something pork flavored next time?”  
  
“Why so choosy?”   
  
“You keep doing what I tell you,” says Atsushi. “Except I don’t like banana.”  
  
There’s the sound of soft chewing, and then the crunch as Atsushi eats the wrapper. He’s like a vacuum cleaner; Tatsuya’s dorm room is as messy as his bedroom at home ever was (and that’s twice the size of this place) and still the floor is clear, of dust and candy wrappers and old receipts, of the pen caps Tatsuya would have liked to have back at some point.   
  
“What will you do if I don’t?” Tatsuya says, flopping back against the bed. “Come up and eat me?”  
  
It comes out a little more flirtatious than he’d thought he meant, but, well. He’s done weirder shit than tried to hit on a monster under his bed. Worse shit, too; he shows a little bit of restraint and doesn’t pull at his necklace.  
  
“Maybe,” says Atsushi. “Maybe not.”  
  
Tatsuya closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of Atsushi eating, opening a mango Hi-Chew and dangling the wrapper over the side, holding the candy in his mouth. It’s humanlike fingers that brush against his to take the wrapper; Tatsuya slowly pulls his hand back up and curls and uncurls it several times (being a monster isn’t contagious; he shouldn’t be so silly). Not an unusual touch, but he files the feeling away in his memory.


	17. kagahimu, airport

He’s too late; he’d known he would be. Walking through the airport, breaking into a run, there’s no way he can sweet talk his way through security without a ticket and this isn’t some shitty movie where he can make a break for it because he’ll get tazed but he thinks about it anyway because there’s Taiga, at the head of the security line.  
  
“Taiga!” Tatsuya calls.  
  
Taiga’s headphones are in; he doesn’t hear; the woman next to Tatsuya gives him a nasty look.  
  
“Taiga!” Tatsuya calls again, even louder.  
  
Some drug-sniffing dog walks up to him, attached to an angry-looking cop. “Where’s your boarding pass?”  
  
Tatsuya can only pretend to look through his phone for so long (he knows he’s lucky to not get detained, that he at least has his passport on him, just in case he’d needed it, that the officers are just doing their job but come on, no one’s going to fucking screw with the TSA by yelling someone’s name before security). He ends up outside, fingering the broken necklace in his pocket as he tries to hail a cab.   
  
He’d known he’d be too late; Alex had told him the other week exactly when Taiga was leaving, if he’d wanted to try and make it up. And this is just Tatsuya trying to say he’d done all he could when he’d had a week, before that even, to mend fences—though this is no fence; this is a fortified wall with a whole stretch razed to the ground, if not all of it. This is something no one day could repair, not like the necklace which he knows he could just take to a jewelry store (the chances that something happens to it—it looks cheap; it is cheap; they won’t take care of it; it’s not that he’s afraid of losing it but what if he sees Taiga again and he doesn’t have his necklace but Taiga’s is around his neck?) or anything so simply fixed. Even if, one day, if Tatsuya goes to Japan or if Taiga comes back, if they can start to fix things, it’ll take as long as it had taken to unravel. Years, maybe more. Fuck. This feels like being by the street court all over again, fucking up the chance the exact same way he’d known he had, knowing this is a bad idea, hurting Taiga all over again, hurting Alex, hurting himself. It fucking hurts, but Tatsuya deserves it, for not trying hard enough, for not at least beginning, promising Taiga that there was something left here for him. The jagged edge of the chain digs into the heel of Tatsuya’s hand. Let it hurt.


	18. akamido, lucky item

  
The sounds of the morning in Kyoto are different than they are back home. Midorima’s neighborhood is fairly quiet, but there are commuter cars and noisy birds and distant trains; Akashi’s bedroom in Kyoto overlooks a garden with, yes, a few birds, but they seem almost respectful in their quiet singing. It had been difficult for Midorima to fall asleep the previous night simply because it had been quiet, unusually so, and he’d been thinking about Akashi lying asleep next to him.  
  
Akashi’s already out of bed and Midorima feels a stab of something, like guilt or embarrassment for having slept in so long. He glances at the clock, then raises his glasses to his face to see the numbers. Twenty minutes to Oha-Asa, that’s plenty of time for him to rise and stretch beforehand.  
  
Akashi is dressed, finishing a slice of toast and reading the newspaper, a half-full cup of tea beside him. He nods at Midorima, and then grabs his hand briefly on the way by. Midorima waits to let his fingers fall from the warmth of Akashi’s palm, and then pours himself some tea from the pot.  
  
“I’m going to watch Oha-Asa. Care to join me?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
*  
  
Oha-Asa declares Midorima's lucky item to be a pillow, and Akashi’s to be a rubber cell phone case. While Akashi has plenty of pillows (and bestows a large foam one with a red cover on Midorima for the day), neither of them is in possession of a rubber phone case. Akashi doesn’t usually follow Oha-Asa (and if anyone doesn’t need to, it’s him) but today he says he can afford it, that he’d like it.  
  
They set off, pillow tucked under Midorima’s arm, Akashi leaving the way. He tells the driver that they may call him later at the gate, and looks at Midorima for acknowledgement. Midorima nods.  
  
The streets of Kyoto are lovely, so different from Tokyo, though Midorima supposes he shouldn’t compare the two so much (it’s hard, though; it’s hard not to think of how Akashi had left Tokyo for this place, hard not to judge it on that, a sort of incredulity—it suits Akashi, his demeanor and his preferences, but it’s not like Tokyo doesn’t, in a different way). Akashi can come back, probably will come back for university, anyway; just because he had needed to leave home doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to come back for good.  
  
They stop at a street vendor, cheap phone cases incompatible with Akashi’s slightly older version, but Oha-Asa hadn’t said that the case needs to be on your phone. Akashi holds one up, green with white pinstripes.  
  
“How about this one?”  
  
Midorima nods.  
  
“Good. We’ll take it,” says Akashi, and he tucks the case into his pocket.


	19. murahimu, hogwarts au

Himuro in the Hufflepuff common room is not an unusual sight per se. He drops in often enough on his way back from rounds or practice or some other thing (Murasakibara doesn’t tell him the password but he’ll either figure it out or sweet talk his way into getting in regardless); it would be nice if he’d say something and one of those annoying first years wouldn’t have to come and get Murasakibara, but, well. He’s got a pile of sweets on the table in front of him, smiling in that cold way of his whenever one of the younger kids comes over to ask or take some.  
  
“Hi, Atsushi.”  
  
Murasakibara sighs and sits down on the couch next to him, wedging Himuro in between him and the arm; Himuro shoves him lightly back, but accepts the arm draped around his shoulders. Murasakibara pulls a couple of chocolate frogs out of the pile, opens them and pols both of the little wriggling things into his mouth at once, leaving the packaging on the other end of the couch (a couple of the first years dive for them; Murasakibara’s had the whole set since before he’d started school).  
  
“Why didn’t you bring them to me?”  
  
“I was going to take them back to my room, but your common room’s closer.”  
  
“So’s my dormitory.”  
  
“If you eat some now, there’s less to carry,” says Himuro, breaking off a corner of a bar of dark chocolate for himself.  
  
Murasakibara sighs; Himuro does have a point. It would be nicer in theory to eat everything in bed, but then they’d get chocolate and crumbs on the sheets and it wouldn’t be fun to sleep on so he’d have to bother Himuro into taking him back to his dorm and he doesn’t really like most of the other Slytherins in Himuro’s year (then again, the other Hufflepuffs in his year can be pretty annoying, but Murasakibara’s used to them and he’s good enough at tuning them out that it’s better just to deal with them). Then again, they can eat some here and now, and some tomorrow morning before the house elves come and clean things up.  
  
“Muro-chin, let’s go.”  
  
“Hmm?” says Himuro, grinning from the side of his face like he wants to drag something out of Murasakibara.  
  
Murasakibara rolls his eyes, his fingers pressing into Himuro’s back (if only they were far enough down to lift his shirt just a little).


	20. kikasa, spy au

They leave him, slamming their briefcases on the table before picking them up, tightening his shackles against the chair, slamming the door shut behind them. There’s one-way glass up at the top, a strip too narrow to crawl through, should Kise figure out how to scale the walls before anyone watching could call in the guards (then again hurling the chair at the glass and taking on the guards to escape through the open door—Kise’s succeeded with much worse plans, though were they really bad if they’d succeeded).  
  
At least they hadn’t touched his clothes this time, removed all of his electronics (burner phones with call histories deleted) and weapons. They’d let him keep the ring around his finger, the dull flat metal, inexpensive but hardly cheap, priceless. Kise thumbs it, the groove where the metal’s fused together under the pad of his finger. It’s not a wedding ring, an engagement ring, just a promise that when all of this settles down, when Kasamatsu’s given basketball the final shot (when he’s figured out a way to stay in the game on his terms or made peace with the fact that it’s not an option) and when Kise’s work settles down (the work Kasamatsu thinks Kise does!) that they’ll stay together. It’s not asking for marriage, engagement, a formal contract, an announcement in the newspaper. It’s just a promise of love, of faith in the things Kasamatsu doesn’t know Kise is keeping from him. Like this, that he’s a spy, a stupid spy who had been thinking about his boyfriend back home, the boyfriend who thinks he’s just the usual kind of salaryman, when he’d gotten caught in the exact wrong place.  
  
Fuck. He’s gotten out of worse spots before; this is no time to play the romantic sap who dies his own kind of love martyr. The agency would never tell Kasamatsu the truth, veil it in careful voices and lies Kasamatsu’s grief wouldn’t let him question, or if he did it would be so easy from the outside to see delusion or the madness of mourning. Kise’s alive, though, right now; he’s alive and not dead yet and he’s certainly not planning on dying anytime soon, anywhere that leads to some path like that for Kasamatsu. He twists the ring on his neck again, then stands up on the chair, leaning such that it doesn’t fall over from the short distance from the cuff on his wrist to the one on the chair. He’ll be out soon; they won’t know what hit them.


	21. aomomo, ring

He’s got no reason to be nervous. They’ve talked about getting married before; it’s the obvious conclusion for both of them—neither’s against the concept; it’s always been a given (but not taken for granted for a long, long time) that they’ll end up together for what’s as good as forever, that an end of the line with either of them not being the most important person to each other, in every single way just isn’t an option.  
  
And Satsuki’s Satsuki; she knows this is coming, but maybe that’s just it. Daiki shoots the ball toward the hoop; it bounces off the rim and he scowls at it. He wants to surprise Satsuki, sort of, not that this is coming, but he wants to give her something good, not some boring and predictable speech full of shit she already knows about how much he loves her. He jams his hands into the pockets of his shorts; the box with the ring fits in his palm. This is it, her size (he’d paid Tetsu for that in milkshakes, gotten him to go shopping with her and visit a jewelry store to try on rings of his own—though Tetsu had actually bought a ring for himself, so maybe Daiki should consider being a shopping consultant or something) and well-designed, expensive but not gaudy. Understated, but bright and sparkling (some other descriptive words in the pamphlet that Daiki had tuned out; it’s just a ring, in the end, and the more important thing is what it means).  
  
If she says yes, they’ll be engaged, the promise in concrete that they’ll be married. A wedding, a ceremony, fancy clothes, guest lists, things Satsuki at least likes to plan. Daiki’s getting a little ahead of himself, maybe, but still. He picks up the ball and shoots a layup; it breezes through the net and falls back into his hands. He’s got this, the way he’s got an easy shot, a free throw, an open rebound, a pass through traffic he knows is going to make it one way to the other. Sure, he’s got no idea what to say, no comparison to make, but it’s Satsuki, and it’s him, and maybe simpler is better. Deliberations and speeches and shit, that’s just dressing; Satsuki’s going to see right through to the point and he’s not going to make her wait to get her say in (though it doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to hear everything she means to him all over again, but they’ve got forever for that).


	22. takamido, stop flirting

Those stupid fucking first years. Miyaji is going to run them over, several times, when the Winter Cup is all said and done (he’s not stupid, okay; he knows the team needs them to win right now, but still, if they don’t stop that dumb flirting in like, five seconds, he’s going to pulverize them).  
  
“Hey,” says Kimura, dropping the crate of fruit on the front desk. “I have some stuff from my dad’s fruit stand.”  
  
Miyaji grabs a pear and then a pineapple—yeah, that’s probably for sharing, for Ootsubo or someone to carve up with a knife, but it’s an even more effective threat than usual. Miyaji’s brother raises an eyebrow, as if to ask him if he’s really going to do that, before taking a pear for himself and biting into it. Takao and Midorima are at the back of the line, Takao grinning up at Midorima in that annoying bratty way and Midorima’s face just the tiniest bit flushed. Pair that with the eyelashes and the fact that he’s the ace, and it’s like he’s the star of some fucking shoujo manga. And Shutoku isn’t a shoujo manga; if it was any kind of comic it would star a very vexed third-year forward in his quest to take back the Winter Cup.  
  
“Wow, Shin-chan,” says Takao, giggling and grinning wider, and Midorima pouts his lips.  
  
“Will they fucking stop flirting?” Miyaji says, feeling a little bit like banging his head against the wall.  
  
“You don’t have to watch them,” says Ootsubo. “And as long as they don’t break each other’s hearts, I’m fine with it. We’re winning, right?”  
  
“Well, yeah,” says Miyaji. “But those fucking brats. Flaunting their real-life reciprocation. It’s not so easy for a guy like me!”  
  
“There were those nice girls at the idol performance we went to,” says Ootsubo. “Maybe one of them—”  
  
“I’m not interested in any girl who thinks she loves Miyu-Miyu more than I do,” says Miyaji.  
  
“Shin-chan, do you want to split this peach with me?” says Takao.  
  
Miyaji’s arm tenses.  
  
“That’s not even that bad,” says Ootsubo.  
  
Takao takes a bite of the peach and hands it to Midorima, who’s flushed a darker color than the fruit he’s now holding. Miyaji rolls his eyes.  
  
“Stop flirting or I’ll throw a pineapple at you!”  
  
Takao grins back at him. “Aww, are you jealous Miyaji-san?”  
  
“You little shit,” says Miyaji. “Forget the pineapple, I’m going to beat you up with my own hands.”  
  
“Shin-chan, save me!” says Takao, clinging to Midorima, who looks as annoyed as Miyaji feels (his fault he hasn’t kept his little boyfriend in check).


	23. aohimu, valentine

Valentine’s Day is different in the States, but Aomine still hasn’t bothered to figure it out totally. Still, he’s got the basics down, like how it still involves chocolate (and copious amounts) given to the person you like, so if he’s the one giving (though here, maybe everyone involved does) he might as well get something good. Which is how he walks out of the Rite Aid several blocks away from Himuro’s apartment with a large bag full of maybe too many chocolates, a few days before the holiday, but the closest he’ll probably get being here on a road trip for a while.  
  
It’s weird not being single this year; he’s used to being vaguely or ironically bitter toward the lovey-dovey couples in the bitter cold of mid-February, but it’s kind of nice to see them out on the street now, walking their dog or linking their arms or staring into each other’s eyes. It’s still corny as shit, but Aomine’s that way over Himuro all the goddamn time, so it’s not like he can’t be a hypocrite about this.  
  
The dirty snow isn’t melting into the gutters here yet, just piling up on the curbs, crusting black ice at the top. It’s not particularly romantic, but Himuro likes it for some reason, so it can’t really be all that bad. And the walk to Himuro’s place isn’t that long; Aomine waves at the doorman before getting in the elevator and leaning back against the corner. One of Himuro’s neighbors, some old lady in a fur coat, looks at him somewhat reproachfully when she gets on at the fourth floor, and Aomine kind of straightens up.  
  
He lets himself into Himuro’s apartment, kicking off his shoes and hanging his coat on the rack that Himuro himself barely uses. Himuro’s on the couch, sleeves of his sweater rolled up and a book in his lap, looking pretty damn good as always.  
  
“Hey, Daiki,” he says, smile at one corner of his mouth.  
  
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says, dropping the Rite Aid bag into Himuro’s lap and hastily pulling out the receipt.  
  
“A little early,” says Himuro, but he picks out the largest heart-shaped box of chocolates first, tearing through the plastic wrap. “But thank you. Want some?”  
  
Aomine grins, sitting down next to him and resting his hand on Himuro’s thigh. “Sure.”  
  
He opens his mouth, and Himuro pops the first chocolate in; it smells kind of like raspberry but Aomine closes his hand around Himuro’s fingers while they’re still inside, trapping the chocolate against the roof of his mouth.  
  
“Hungry for something else, huh?" says Himuro, and Aomine won’t disagree with that.


	24. kikasa, takeout

The options for food in Kanagawa, particularly between the train station and Kaijou, are…limiting, to say the least. Kise knows people tease him about being a model and an uptown boy and a snob, but there’s no reason a place like this couldn’t do better than a seedy Burger King, a convenience store, a coffee shop that closes at five, a sushi bar that doesn’t do takeout, a ramen shop that keeps rebranding itself under the same ownership (but is closed for renovations half the time), and a cheap, greasy Chinese takeout place.  
  
Said cheap, greasy takeout is probably the best option, though, so Kise tries not to look too grossed out by the unwashed floor and the terrible lighting (seriously, they could make the food look so much better without this overly-bright crap). And it’s still probably better than the stuff they serve at the Kaijou cafeteria, even if it means Kise’s going to have to double down on his diet for the next week and a half to take care of all these extra calories.  
  
Kasamatsu can eat most of it, though, if he ever lets Kise in. The problem with Kaijou’s dorm system is that each year is in a different building, which is quite inconvenient considering the amount of time Kise would like to spend with Kasamatsu. And when the building’s locked, he has to call Kasamatsu’s cell phone or yell at his window, whichever seems to be more effective at the moment. At least Kasamatsu answers the phone this time, on Kise’s second try.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m downstairs; let me in.”  
  
“Didn’t you have work tonight?” Kasamatsu says with a sigh.  
  
“Well, yeah,” says Kise. “I had to come back, though; I brought dinner.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” says Kasamatsu. “I’ll be down.”  
  
He opens the door in his sweatpants, Kaijou blue and rolled low on his waist (probably for comfort, but also for Kise’s enjoyment—perhaps unintentionally so) and a stained tank top; he looks at the bag in Kise’s hand and raises his eyebrows.  
  
“You went there?”  
  
“Not like I had much choice,” says Kise. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”  
  
“Thanks,” says Kasamatsu, leaning over and kissing Kise. “Come in; it’s fucking freezing out.”  
  
Kasamatsu takes all of the chicken fingers and Kise tries not to be too disappointed (he chants the amount of calories in his head, though he helps himself to a wonton and most of the beef with broccoli, so he’s not a perfect saint).


	25. akafuri, bullet train

It had been pure stubbornness, when Furihata had put his foot down and returned the ticket for the bullet train that Akashi had bought him. It wasn’t his birthday; it wasn’t any occasion for a gift; just because Akashi can afford it doesn’t mean it doesn’t make Furihata uncomfortable. And it had been a little bit shortsighted, to give up some precious in-person time when it had been quite literally gifted to him, but the message had gotten through. Akashi had backed off a little, and Furihata had kept saving.  
  
Maybe it’ll be okay in the future for Akashi to buy him this; it’s not like he doesn’t buy his won tickets to Tokyo (but when he visits Furihata he’s also visiting his hometown, his friends, his father; the situations aren’t totally analogous). And they can’t ignore the difference in their monetary situations, but it’s not like Furihata’s poor. It’s not like it had taken him that long to save for a ticket, even with street ball entry fees and the regular amount of his part-time paycheck he ends up spending. But right now, this first time, he’d wanted it to be him. It’s hard for Furihata to express his feelings, to come out and say or do the things that Akashi does; he doesn’t just want to do the same things right back because that’s not enough. It’s not that Akashi’s too much; it’s not that Furihata even thinks that Akashi likes him more than he likes Akashi. It’s just hard to describe, hard to gauge these things from such a distance.  
  
Just because it’s easier for Akashi to meet Furihata in the middle doesn’t mean he’s not going to drag himself all the way over every once in a while. And sure it’s a relationship; it’s the two of them, but everything comes from one side or the other or both. There’s no need, no request for Furihata to prove himself, but still, this is the way he knows how to say it; I like you and I want to spend time with you and I’m going to devote a good chunk of my resources toward that. It’s a plain statement, maybe, no grand romantic gesture, but neither of them needs or even wants that. Just an affirmation, a reaffirmation, even, that despite the distance, the jagged chunks of text communication, the train tickets few and far between, the landscape blurred out of Furihata’s window, they both want this. They both want each other.


	26. kikuro, fried egg

“I’m sure I can fry eggs, Kurokocchi,” says Kise. “It’s not that hard. You can boil eggs.”  
  
Kuroko looks at Kise the same way he always does, always unimpressed. “That doesn’t mean you ca fry themn.”  
  
“Mean,” Kise mutters under his breath, even though it’s absolutely true that he’d failed the cooking portion of home ec in middle school (much to Midorima’s chagrin) and hasn’t done much better in the few scattered attempts since.  
  
But cooking can’t be that hard; Kuroko’s mastered boiled eggs and seems content with that and Kise has watched him do it before. All you need to do with eggs is watch them for a bit, flip them if you’re frying them, and put them on a plate. Some people use butter in the pan, but eggs have a lot of fat; Kise cracks both eggs over the pan and tosses the eggshells in the trash. These are going to be the best damn eggs Kuroko’s ever had.  
  
Kise turns up the heat on the stove and waits; the eggs begin to sizzle and something starts to smell—weird. A lot of steam is rolling off the tops of the eggs, or is that—smoke? Maybe you turn them sooner; Kise slides the spatula under one of the eggs, or tries to. The egg won’t budge, as if it’s glued itself to the pan. Kise shoves harder; finally the egg turns over, but the bottom is charred completely. Kise turns off the flame; the eggs are really smoking now and the smell is overbearing. Kise waves it out the window, trying to stand away from the fumes.  
  
Kuroko’s entered the kitchen, apparently not too turned off by the smell, and at least he hasn’t given Kise that look that says he’d told him so yet.  
  
“I’m sorry, Kise-kun.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Kurokocchi; I just wanted to cook for you…”  
  
“We can just order udon,” says Kuroko. “We can get onion flavor.”  
  
“Kurokocchii…” So Kise’s whining a bit; Kuroko’s being cute for once—maybe Kise should consider trying this more often.  
  
“Don’t do this on purpose,” says Kuroko, picking up the phone to dial (they know the number by heart at this point). “This is a one-time thing.”  
  
Kise hugs Kuroko, wondering how far he can push while Kuroko’s on the phone, how much he can do without Kuroko rescinding his offer or trying to make Kise pay for it.  
  
“You have to clean the pan,” says Kuroko. “Good luck.”


	27. nijihimu, rainbow pencil

For someone who’s probably been hearing it all his life, Shuu’s got a pretty good sense of humor about the rainbow puns. It’s not like Tatsuya uses them a lot, only a nudge every so often, but these rainbow pencils are a little too much. They have little practical use (maybe if you’re a kid doing art), but as something to buy for Shuu, Tatsuya can spare the two-fifty plus tax they’ll cost. He grabs a couple of gel pens for himself before he can regret it and heads to the register.  
  
*  
  
Tatsuya leaves for his next road trip before Shuu comes back from his; having overlapping homestands means they’ll miss each other sometimes and Tatsuya doesn’t like thinking about it, but that’s the way it is, the way the arenas shake out and what’s available and who’s scheduled where.  
  
_Did you like my gift?_ Tatsuya texts to Shuu the day he’s due home.  
  
_Ha ha_  
  
Nevertheless, when Tatsuya gets back, the first thing he notices is the to-do list, written in rainbow pencil. The lines wind in and out of green and blue and purple, some spots hard to read but the letters complete themselves. The kanji at the side is harder, though that’s maybe a little bit more on Tatsuya (his skills have lapsed majorly since he’d finished high school, and even then it was a struggle; Shuu’s handwriting might be neat but with the yellow and light green, creating space where there is none, it’s too much for Tatsuya’s jet-lagged brain to decipher at the moment.  
  
But Shuu’s here; Shuu’s home, Shuu and his rainbow pencils. Tatsuya makes a note to buy more, if he ever gets back over to that stationary store (where had it been, the upper east side?) and then yawns at the list. From the looks of its contents, they don’t have much left here, but it’s better to go shopping together when they can carry more back between the two of them, bumping shoulders and pretending to pretend it’s from the barely-noticeable weights of the bags. Shuu’s home, and asleep like Tatsuya should be. He yawns again, leaving the suitcase in the living room; he’ll deal with that tomorrow morning. The bedroom door is slightly ajar and Tatsuya pushes it open, carefully so the hinges don’t squeak.  
  
The other rainbow pencil is on Tatsuya’s bedside table; Shuu must have put it there. Tatsuya smiles as he pulls off his suit, draping it over the chair to the desk neither of them uses for anything but storage. Shuu shifts in bed, but doesn’t seem to wake up.  
  
The tone of his skin is its usual color, but what had Tatsuya expected it to be, all of a sudden rainbow, stained from the graphite? He kisses Shuu’s cheek before pulling the covers over both of them


	28. kagakise, hockey au

Another season with his ankle all torn up and Kise’s going to scream. Not in pain, the Vicodin’s got him covered for now, but in sheer agony of training up, getting paid, and then getting stuck in the press box while his team wins and loses without him. Mostly wins (usually thanks in some obvious part to Kagami), and that might sting more than if they were losing, if it sucked to watch from an enjoyment standpoint. Because Kise does enjoy watching this, the way Kagami scores and pumps his fist out on the ice except it should be Kise there hugging him, with the assist, with the goal, even. He’d been brought out here to score goals and lighten the load on Kagami and look where they’d ended up, Kagami dominating the scoresheet, Kagami and all of his ice time, Kise sitting on IR with a busted ankle, another surgery, and another prescription.  
  
He doesn’t like to rely on the meds too much, but if he takes a couple he’ll go right to sleep while Kagami’s at practice and the aching in his ankle will seem less immediate, less present. Kagami’s bed is big (their bed, maybe, by now); Kise rolls to the middle and stretches his arms out like a starfish, like he’s making a snow angel. He closes his eyes, breathes in Kagami’s smell on the pillow, and goes to sleep.  
  
“How’s the ankle?” says Kagami, as if appearing.  
  
Kise blinks up at him; the words are either going to come out of his mouth very fast or not at all; he steadies himself. He’s lying normally, on his stomach but still in the middle of the bed, and Kagami’s sitting on the side, looking just about ready for his pregame nap.  
  
“Okay. How was the rink?”  
  
“It was good. Practice was good.”  
  
Kise should have bene there; maybe if he takes another painkiller he can skate—it’s not strong enough; it’ll crack already; Kise’s had physical therapy sessions and he knows enough from before to know how much weaker it gets the more you patch it up (almost like an oxymoron). The pills are wearing off now, actually; Kise’s ankle is complaining at him in a low voice, still a little strained; Kise flexes it and then ignores it. So what? They’re a long way away from competing, from getting out there on the ice with Kagami, from skating at all. But a little closer, maybe.


	29. garciraki, marriage

She’s at the wrong end, in the wrong place. She could have bought a ticket, gone to Akita—and done what? It’s not like this is a legal bond in Japan, not like Masako can get her a green card and a job and a life, not like Alex even wants to leave everything she has here. But she would, for Masako; even before it’s an ultimatum they’re never going to give each other she still would. Alex twists the ring on her finger, white gold, heavier than she’d been expecting, a weight and feeling she’s still unused to, on her finger, rubbing against the fingers around it. It’s just a symbol, not the actual bond, the document and certificate and judge’s ruling, the kiss they’d sealed it with, Masako’s hair through Alex's hands like a waterfall, thumbs brushing Masako’s ears.  
  
There’s nothing for her to do before security, just a couple of shitty fast food places she could visit in the drive thru on the way home, but she doesn’t want to go back to the car just yet, look over to the passenger’s side and wish Masako was there. She’s a big girl; she can do it; she can deal with Masako being back in Akita. It’s not as if they’ll never see each other again; it's not as if this relationship has ever been anything other than miles between them, time squeezed out of the end of a rag. They're married now; Masako’s her wife and she’s Masako’s (what an odd word, what an odd feeling, sounds better in English than in Spanish because she doesn’t feel trapped here at all, if anything sort of the opposite). If they’re going to do anything like that, they’ll have to talk it over, the way they’d talked over marriage, decided to do it anyway despite the lack of need, going down to the courthouse in grey—white is too much, too unlike them; Alex had once worn a wedding dress but she’d preferred something more understated, something to match Masako’s in color if not in cut, something that would pop against both of them, frame them pretty in the courthouse (they have a real photo, expensive but worth it, and a selfie Masako had taken with Alex’s phone, the two of them leaning against Alex’s car, rings visible on their fingers, Masako’s head on Alex’s shoulder and the two of them smiling, brighter than the sun behind the courthouse building.


	30. haikaga, hockey au

The puck slips off the Flames’ guy’s stick and Taiga pounces, leaving his man but getting over to the puck first, before they can recover, and pushing it ahead, past the blueline and offsides. This is not how they should approach the end of the game; the Leafs’ goalie up ahead has been glancing toward the bench for the signal that it’s time to head to the bench for the extra skater; Taiga’s pretty surprised they haven’t already, and maybe it’s for the better (they’re getting pinned back at five apiece) or maybe for the worse (it would be nice to have an open net so he could fucking ice this game for sure). He’s legging it out across the neutral zone; none of his teammates are catching up but he can hear Shougo behind him, already having logged twenty-five-odd minutes but still with something left in his legs, the biggest problem in the Wild’s zone when they were back there. Taiga grits his teeth, digging into his mouth guard, pushing ahead, to the side, faking left but the goalie’s not buying.  
  
Taiga swears, tees up short, and then Shougo slams into him from the side, shoulder-to-shoulder, pad-to-pad.  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Taiga shouts; the puck slips away but Shougo’s got some opposite momentum, too; they both recover and they’re both after it again.  
  
“You know I love it when I can make you shout that shit,” says Shougo, as both of them swipe their sticks against the boards trying to get the puck; their teammates are catching up and this is eating up time, thank fuck.  
  
“Checking is so fucking sexy,” says Taiga. “You’re right.”  
  
“It’s just because it’s me,” says Shougo, flashing a mouth guard-heavy smile and Taiga loses just enough concentration to cede the puck.  
  
He lunges for it; one of his teammates makes an attempt from the other side; Shougo evades but his pass goes off the stick of its intended target and back into Wild control; they’re setting up again and Taiga races back to position. Shougo’s on him, shoving at him, doing his damn agitating job, and Taiga’s not going to lose to him again.  
  
“Win’s a win,” says Shougo.  
  
“Did I call you dirty?” says Taiga.  
  
“I’m a dirty guy, what can I say,” says Shougo.  
  
The puck comes to Taiga; he turns and shoots through the screen but the goalie gets enough of it to send it trickling wide, but then the horn sounds to signify the end of the period.  
  
“Win’s a win,” says Taiga, before he skates off to join his teammates in their hug huddle (he and Shougo have a lot of things to talk about after the game, but they’ve got time for that).


	31. haikise, glass eating

“You going to eat that?” Shougo says, pointing to the shard of glass in Ryouta’s hand.  
  
Ryouta looks up from the magazine in his other hand; he’s been playing with the glass like it’s a toy and running his hands over the edges, not drawing blood or getting any of it stuck under his skin. He doesn’t look hungry, but he hasn’t eaten in a while, and diet or no this shit ain’t calories (maybe it’s something about resisting temptation, or somehting; maybe Ryouta’s been having cravings about eating the windows).  
  
“Do you want it?” His voice is sweet and sharper than the glass, like he’s trying to bait Shougo into something again.  
  
Shougo’s too tired to fall for the same old shit, the you want but you can’t have; he looks at Ryouta and says nothing. He can get his own damn glass if he wants to, even though that’s not the point and that would be admitting he’s not even going to try against Ryouta even though he’s got no idea what they’re fighting for this time just yet.  
  
“What’s it gonna take for you to give it to me?”  
  
Ryouta looks as if he’s considering, trying to make Shougo wait, the asshole. Shougo sighs and leans back, looking closer at the glass, the way it curves like it’s probably from a wine glass or something like that. (Do they have any wine glasses? Shougo doesn’t think they do, but that doesn’t mean Ryouta hadn’t bought some of his own.)  
  
“If you feed it to me you can have some.”  
  
“Some, huh?”  
  
Ryouta nods, looking bored like he's going to go back to his magazine (but Shougo knows that look all too well; Ryouta’s practiced bored look has nothing on the look he gives when he’s actually bored and the mask falls off, and this doesn’t have enough derisive bite for that).  
  
“Why not,” says Shougo.  
  
Ryouta hands the glass over like he’s not quite sure Shougo’s not going to eat it all himself, and please. He thinks about it briefly, but it wouldn’t be worth it this early in the morning. Shougo breaks off a piece and sticks it between his own lips, slowly crunching away at the edges and he watches Ryouta’s eyes narrow like a cat going in for the kill.  
  
“Chill,” says Shougo, breaking off another piece.  
  
He waits for Ryouta to shift forward, just a little bit, before he sticks the shard of the shard into his mouth, lets Ryouta’s plump, wet lips close around his fingers until they bump up against Ryouta’s teeth and the splinters of glass as Ryouta chews.


	32. aokaga, note

Daiki hadn’t even found the note until now, and fuck does he feel dumb. It’s only by chance that they’re both in LA right now, him for the championships and Taiga visiting family (if social media is any indication). And that’s a little more than chance, okay, but it’s not like either of them had planned on this, not the way Taiga had planned on Daiki seeing the apology note tucked into the outside pocket of his suitcase, the one he rarely uses. Or maybe Taiga had halfway hoped Daiki wouldn’t see it, but had wanted to give it anyway—but that’s not all that much like him. Even now, Daiki knows him better than that.  
  
He’d forgotten about some of those things, not really even transgressions but they’d seemed so big at the time, three years ago, big enough to drive the wedge in their relationship in deeper. It’s not like those had been the real reasons, that they hadn’t had other problems that they both need to apologize for in person, but this, the painstaking kanji, the words packed in, is so genuine, and Daiki’s been stomping on Taiga’s hope ever since then.  
  
At least Taiga hasn’t moved; Daiki sees his name printed above the buzzer in the vestibule (it could be another Kagami, he supposes, but what are the odds?) and presses the button.  
  
“Yeah?” It’s Taiga alright.  
  
“Hey, Taiga, it’s me. Let me up?”  
  
There’s no answer, only the buzzer, and Daiki pulls the door open.  
  
Taiga greets him with a wave, a little guarded but not too much, and Daiki unfolds the note crumpled in his hand.  
  
“Listen, I’m sorry. I just found this in my bag today, and I want you to know I haven’t been ignoring it or not accepting it,” Daiki says. “Like, I wish I’d found it sooner and I want to say all that shit’s okay and you know that’s not the real reason we broke up, right?”  
  
Taiga nods, half-smile that looks a little bit more like a grimace on his face. “Yeah, I know. It was super passive-aggressive of me to put it there.”  
  
“Yeah, well, if you’d tried to say it I would have argued or blocked you out, so,” says Daiki. “Anyway.”  
  
“Anyway,” says Taiga. “You got practice today?”  
  
“Off day,” says Daiki.  
  
“Want to stay for lunch? I was about to make pasta or something, but…” he shrugs at his apartment, still just as neat as it ever was when Daiki wasn’t visiting in the offseason (probably still keeps his porn in the living room, too).  
  
“Sure,” says Daiki. “I'll help.”


	33. nebumibu, sephora

Eikichi supposes this is fair, or as fair as these things get. Reo had put up with his tour through the vitamin store (if putting up entails snipping about how likely it is these protein powders are filled with heavy metals and how these herbal supplements are shady as fuck, probably overpriced for what they are which is quack shit) and waited with him in line while he’d bought several canisters of protein powder, the vitamins he’d actually needed, and some type of sports drink that’s supposed to have more electrolytes and less unnecessary sugar. And now he’s here, in the beauty store, surrounded by aisles of eye shadow in every pigment on the visible spectrum. Reo is off in a long discussion with one of the salespeople, and Eikichi is standing here, trying not to sneeze at the perfume. At least that he can have an opinion on (smells good or not); it might not be a good idea to find a new cologne if he has to do something here.  
  
“Excuseme?” says a saleswoman about half Eikichi’s height. “Can I help you?”  
  
“Um,” Eikichi says. “I’m with him.”  
  
She looks at Reo, and then back to Eikichi. “He’ll be a while. If there's anything I can help you with…”  
  
(She just wants to sell shit, Eikichi reminds himself. It’s her job. Still, who knows how long they’re going to be here?)  
  
“Sure. Can you show me the cologne?”  
  
Eikichi’s regretting it a few minutes later when he’s been peppered with questions about whether he’d prefer floral notes or citrus or not, if he’d prefer a strong and manly and assertive scent or something stripped-down and clean. Frankly, they all smell kind of the same to Eikichi, but he’s not going to say that to anyone who has the power to spray him in the face with a bottle of cologne right about now.  
  
“Um,” he says, pointing to one of the least-expensive versions. “I think I like that.”  
  
“Oh? Would you like just the perfume, or the fit set, which comes with the perfume and a smaller bottle, as well as some lotion?”  
  
“What does the lotion do?”  
  
“It makes you smell nice,” says the saleswoman, whose patience is clearly being tested right about now (but that, at least, was an honest question).  
  
“Eikichi! There you are,” says Reo, hurrying over with a giant shopping bag of his own tucked under his arm. “”What are you doing?”  
  
“I was going to buy this,” says Eikichi, pointing toward the perfume.  
  
Reo raises his eyebrow. “No you’re not. That would be horrible for you. Now come, we’re leaving”


	34. takamido, bf sweater

Takao hadn’t taken Midorima’s sweater; Midorima would actually complain about that one and come get it back and Takao doesn't want to really fight him about this. He just wants to wear Midorima’s sweater, feel it bunch up around him in all of its folds, perfectly coutured to Midorima’s form but way too big on Takao. The cuffs are over his hands and off the ends entirely; his hands are wrapped in the parts of the arms that are on Midorima’s wrist, and the sweater’s long enough to cover his ass. The neck is a little wide, but it’s still warm and cozy.  
  
It’s utterly stupid and cliche to miss his boyfriend this much when he’s on a fucking study trip; Takao’s not a sap like that (and no, this isn’t Miyaji’s influence talking). Still, though, when you get used to being with someone, in a certain place, it starts to feel a little bit emptier without them. The apartment’s fairly cluttered, even if it’s relatively neat; Midorima’s stock of lucky items of the past and potentially of the future fill the shelves and the tops of furniture. They have no room in the living room for a grand piano, but Midorima had wanted one so Takao had figured out a way to arrange the furniture, the couch and the chair and the TV stand, in a cozy little circle. The window seat is still open, and there’s still room for Takao to sulk and keep checking his phone even though he’ll see and hear when he gets the alert. He leans against the pane; it’s cold out and the leaves are blowing. Autumn is his least favorite season, even though it’s his birthday; he pulls the sweater down over his hands again.  
  
At least when the weather’s like this he can snatch up one of Midorima’s sweaters and claim it’s because he hasn’t gotten his cold weather clothes out and he’s too lazy for now because what if it gets hot again (Midorima always gives him a disapproving look, but it softens when he sees Takao in his sweater even though he pretends to want to wear that exact one at that moment; it’s his way of letting Takao know he’s noticed). And he’ll be home soon; Takao resolutely does not look at his phone screen again. He’s got the sweater that smells the same clean soap and disinfectant way Midorima does; he’s got a million more things to needle Midorima about when he gets back. It won’t be too long.


	35. aokise, crystal tears

The tears had fallen from Kise’s eyes, inconsequential almost at the time (Kise always cries at shitty movies on TV late at night, at stupid radio interviews that are designed to hook the tears out of people). Aomine had caught them on his thumb but then they’d gotten hard and heavy, crystallized. Brilliant, beautiful in the light. Of course, this is the type of thing that happens to beautiful people like Kise all of the time, crstal tiers and butterfly breaths (though that would be fucking uncomfortable) and gold sweat. Aomine turns the tears over in his palm and then Kise kisses him, rough and strong like a wave bowling him over, the consequences of letting his attention slip away from Kise just for a bit.  
  
Aomine would forget and remember after that, catch slips of tears on his thumb or as the’d fallen from Kise’s cheek, place them in a dish they used to use for loose coins. They didn’t talk about it; there were other things to talk about, work and money and who’s turn it was to pay the bills and whose turn it was to control the TV remote (and how those were related or totally not). It hadn’t come up at all except in that last fight, the things they’d threatened to throw and the way they’d stomped all over each other’s hearts and lungs like they were wearing fresh combat boots they’d needed to break in, like there was no going back.  
  
And there isn’t now; there’s just Aomine in the apartment where it’s always his turn to pay the bills, alone without Kise, the television off late at night so he doesn’t watch stupid shit and cry by himself (or sappy shit and cry even harder, the tears drying and fading into his cheeks, never crystallizing to much more than salt on skin). A little extra cash never hurts, and looking at the dish full of Kise’s tears does, so Aomine takes it to the pawn shop one day, spreading them out on the table.  
  
“Teardrop crystals, huh?”  
  
“I know all about their properties,” says Aomine. “Don’t stiff me.”  
  
“We don’t stiff people here,” says the woman behind the counter.  
  
It’s less than Aomine would have liked, but fair if he counts the bonus of being rid of one more reminder of Kise, one more reminder of the way things once were. He keeps the dish, drops ten yen coins in it, and pretends not to look over and hope that one day he’s going to see crystals again (he doesn’t want Kise to cry, but Kise almost never cries when he really means it).


	36. akamido, hogwarts au

Midorima gathers his robe around his shoulders. It’s cold tonight, the drafty air drifting through the palace and the corridors despite the best enchantments; he’s heard his teachers say that it builds character although perhaps it’s just their way of justifying subjecting another generation of students to the same way things had been when they were young. At any rate, Midorima knows he shouldn’t complain; the only reason he feels the draftiness at all is because he’s out later than he should be, slipping through the corridors when he knows the very predictable prefects out on rounds right now have gone somewhere else.  
  
Still, there’s that not-quite hidden staircase they never check, the classroom none of the professors want and most of the students don’t even know to look for. It’s not some tall tale, like the Room of Hidden Things; it’s very much real, and very much empty. A room of possibilities, if Midorima were the more—romantic, he supposes—sort.  
  
He slips into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him; there’s no need to enchant it that way and it rouses more suspicion than hiding in the closet and locking that (not that they’ve had to). Akashi is at the window, staring out; there’s no view of the lake from this side but it’s still lovely, the grounds stretching a browning green far out into the distance. Midorima doesn’t have to be there to see it in his mind, but why is he focusing on the scenery when Akashi is there? His school robe is slipping from his shoulders as he turns; of course the cold doesn’t affect him as much (then again, warming charms). He looks Midorima up and down, as if seeing something (but Midorima looks as he usually does, at least in his own opinion).  
  
They’re not here to play gobstones tonight; he can tell by the look in Akashi’s eyes as he stands up and beckons Midorima over for a kiss, quiet as the night around him. His hand catches Midorima’s, taped; Midorima swallows. They could talk, about classes, the career choices they’re supposed to be making, the exams that are coming up sooner than Midorima would like (and Akashi, too; he accepts everything and pretends to be ready but he’s not, really). They could talk about gobstones, the Quidditch season when it resumes, all these things that are so inconsequential right now. Maybe they should just keep kissing instead.


	37. garciraki, drinking sake

The paper bag covers all but the top of the bottle of sake in Masako’s hand, right above the neck where she’s gripping it. She’s actually been pleasantly surprised about the selection of sake at Alex’s local liquor stores, a little bit pricey (if she’s got the conversion rate right) and none of the really good stuff, but in terms of a solid bottle they can split in front of the TV tonight, there’s plenty to choose from.  
  
Still, she’d forgotten her keys once again, and Alex isn’t answering the doorbell. Masako rings it again, and finally the sound of Alex’s feet against the wood floor.  
  
“Shit, did you forget your keys?”  
  
Masako nods. “I rang the doorbell a few times.”  
  
“Sorry,” says Alex. “I was asleep.”  
  
She looks it, still wearing most of her clothes but the straps on her tank top falling off and her boobs threatening to fall out, her hair mussed up even in its ponytail and her glasses off. She squints, bleary-eyed, at Masako; Masako kisses her and presses the bottle into her hands.  
  
“Here. I got us some sake.”  
  
“You’re a peach,” says Alex, kissing her again before making her way off to the kitchen. “Can you find my glasses? I think they’re on the coffee table.”  
  
They are, on top of the pile of newspapers that Alex hasn’t finished reading, half-done crossword puzzles left when Alex gets bored or when Masako gets back from her morning run. When she gets back to the kitchen, Alex is rummaging in the cupboards, probably for the wine glasses. Masako hands over her glasses, and Alex puts them on, squinting for a second as if into bright sunlight before looking back at the cubpoard. She slams that one closed and opens the next, pulling out a matching set of two. They’re perfectly round, a little bit dusty like the things sitting unbought in a store for months; Alex rinses them in the sink and then pours the sake out for both of them.  
  
It’s not how Masako would choose to drink it but it tastes the way she expects, a little bit dry down her throat, the pleasant sweetness of the alcohol almost numb if she waits too long to swallow, the sound of the glasses set down against a bare spot on the coffee table, the subdued clatter like distant change being set into a tip jar, Alex spread out and relaxed against Masako’s side, her breath warm on Masako’s neck.


	38. kikasa, panic

So, Kasamatsu had panicked. A lot. He doesn’t like girls; he doesn’t talk to girls; he can’t talk to girls. He’s as awkward around them as anything, and yet one of them had placed a letter in his locker, a confession note. Complete with hearts and perfume and ribbons and, Oh, God. A simple no thank you, a simple I can’t, why can’t he even do that? He’s the captain of the fucking basketball team; he can’t just be a coward about talking to one girl about one note. He doesn’t even have to lie; he’s truly not interested. And there’s someone else, although he’s not sure if that should come up at all.  
  
(Don’t the girls in the manga Kobori’s always going on and on about ask who? As if it’s their business, but damn.)  
  
Kise gets confessed to all of the time, and it’s not like Kasamatsu’s not a little bit jealous of how open they are, how obviously they act in their pursuit of him, how they ask and try to snatch him. Kasamatsu’s never been particularly good with his own feelings; it’s always a process of working things through, and he wouldn’t have really realized his for Kise at all if Kise hadn’t said anything. And why would Kise want to stay in a relationship where he’s always the one pushing for more, figuring things out, when he’s got these girls almost literally throwing themselves at him? That’s a rhetorical question; they’ve talked it over and Kasamatsu’s thought it over enough.  
  
“Senpai,” says Kise, peering over the next stall. “I found you.”  
  
Kasamatsu practically shrieks (but he is not the type of person who shrieks). “What the fuck? I could have been some random person taking a shit.”  
  
“But I knew you weren’t,” says Kise. “Come on, what do you have there?”  
  
Kasamatsu wants to hide it, but it’s only going to make Kise more interested, and might as well let it all out. He hands the crumpled piece of paper up to Kise, and Kise scans it, eyes narrowing.  
  
“What are you going to do about it?”  
  
Kasamatsu shrugs. “I have to tell her no, but…I don’t even know who she is.”  
  
Kise laughs, and Kasamatsu is less amused than all of the times Kise’s broken the fucking hoop in practice combined. “What? This is fucking hard for me, Mr. I Reject Ten Girls Every Day. You fucking know why.”  
  
“Here I was, worried, that she might be someone important to you,” says Kise. “IF that’s the case, why the drama?”  
  
“No one’s ever written me a letter like this,” says Kasamatsu. “I don’t want to leave her hanging or make her cry, but I don’t talk to girls!”  
  
Kise laughs again, and Kasamatsu contemplates balling up a piece of toilet paper and hitting him on the head with it.


	39. uncrowned, mad scientist au

Teppei lifts the vial to the light, in such a way that it almost looks like he’s checking his hand out for any dirt marks. Sly, but not sly enough for Kotarou (and sure, knowing Teppei gives him a pretty good advantage, but he might as well use it if it’s there). Teppei greets him with a casual smile, as if they’re mere acquaintances, and charade or not, ouch. Kotarou crosses his arms and pouts his lips.  
  
“What’s a nice boy like you doing in an alley like this?" says Teppei.  
  
“I could say the same,” says Kotarou. “Mako-chan and Reo-nee are still downtown; when I left they were arguing but whatever. They’ll get it done. I thought Ei-chan was with you?”  
  
“He saw something else he needed to buy,” says Teppei. “And I figured, both of us at the rendezvous point…”  
  
It’s not that much more suspicious, but whatever. Kotarou rolls his eyes and gestures toward the other end of the alley, the dead end and the fence, the rickety fire escape. They’d bought out the building on the other side so no one’s likely to be looking out the back windows, and this one is as abandoned as it can be, with easy access to a top floor for Reo’s cat to hunt down the rodents and keep it relatively clear. They pull their ways up, spotting each other for anyone on the other end of the alley who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s none for either of them, and Kotarou jams open the window. His arms are smeared with dirt from the frame, but he can wash them here, and Teppei can put the vial in a moderately safe place for now. The cat looks at them from the old sofa, bored; Kotarou sticks out his tongue. The cat goes back to sleep.  
  
*  
  
Reo and Makoto return, still arguing, with Eikichi in tow; Eikichi deposits the rest of the material for their latest experiment on the table (which, of course, Makoto had probably made him carry) and flops onto the couch beside Kotarou, dropping an arm around his shoulder and nuzzling his neck. His body heat is ridiculous, but Kotarou lets it surround him; it would be nice if Eikichi had longer hair so he could ruffle it.   
  
“Hey, Mako-chan, come here!"  
  
“Why? No.”  
  
“Yes,” says Kotarou, and Makoto approaches, slowly like Kotarou’s about to plunge a needle into his veins.   
  
He sits down on the coffee table, glaring at Kotarou and Eikichi like they should make room for him. Kotarou reaches over to ruffle Makoto’s hair, and Makoto’s startled, angry yelp is totally worth it.


	40. aomido, touou!mido

Of course Aomine gets waylaid by the disciplinary committee as soon as he exits the classroom; by the time they’re done yelling at him about uniform violations he’s already late for practice and he heads off alone. Halfway down the hall, he realizes he’d left his water bottle in the classroom so he doubles back. No use making it faster; even Wakamatsu has a max capacity for rage at his tardiness, and he’d missed the boat for walking down with Midorima.  
  
At least, he’d thought he had, but Midorima’s still in the classroom, sitting at his desk with his glasses broken in half in front of him on the table.  
  
“Shit, I thought you were at practice already.”  
  
“I should be,” says Midorima. “I have a spare pair in my locker, it’s just—”  
  
“You can’t see well enough to get there, right,” says Aomine, sitting down on top of the desk in front of him (he’s tried on Midorima’s glasses for shits and giggles a few times; each time he’s wished he hadn’t because how is Midorima not legally blind by this point).  
  
He looks down at Midorima’s face, the eyes quinting up at him to try and focus better, the lashes finally freed from their oppressive cover of the lenses, like when Midorima’s just woken up in the morning. Cute.   
  
“Hey, hold still a second,” says Aomine, and he leans in to kiss Midorima.  
  
Midorima lets him, and then gently shoves him away. “We’re late.”  
  
“Yeah, we’re already late,” says Aomine. “Might as well make the most of it. Besides, Wakamatsu will understand about your glasses.”  
  
Midorima snorts. “Yeah, he’s always understanding.”  
  
“More of you than me,” says Aomine, pulling Midorima to his feet.   
  
Midorima tucks the broken glasses into his pants pocket, but doesn’t let go of Aomine’s hand, and Aomine smiles (Midorima can’t see him anyway). Victory. He squeezes Midorima’s taped fingers, and Midorima sighs but follows him out the door, into the hallway. Most of the students have cleared away by now, but a few are still chatting and hanging out.  
  
“I’m only doing this because I can’t see,” says Midorima.  
  
“I know,” says Aomine, in a tone that probably signifies to Midorima that, in fact, he knows Midorima’s lying.   
  
He turns back; Midorima’s blush is a brilliant red, and he’s searching desperately for some place to put his gaze even though he can’t see anything with it and it’s so damn cute. Aomine can’t wait for the locker rooms and when Midorima can see again, the cross look he’s going to focus on Aomine’s face that’s going to be so cute.


	41. kikasa, second button

There’s only one person at Kaijou Kise would have considered giving his second button to. In middle school he’d let the girls rip them all off; at the graduation ceremony he’d let the class rep take the other one from his jacket; it means nothing to him but she’s been good to him in their three years together and, more importantly, she knows exactly how far her crush is going (that is, nowhere). Kise wouldn’t say he’s really a person who gets crushes, but what he and Kasamatsu had had was not a crush. It wasn’t love, true or otherwise, but it was something in the vast stretch of prairie between the two, flat and wide.   
  
As far as Kise’s concerned, the button is Kasamatsu’s, just as Kasamatsu’s own button had become Kise’s. It’s a fair trade, their one shared year at Kaijou meaning a whole host of other things, things that had shaped Kasamatsu’s tenure as captain and everything Kise had done here. Copying a physical move is easy; copying Kasamatsu’s steadfast leadership is awfully hard, but it’s not like Kise could talk to Kasamatsu about it. It’s not like he’d even been thinking about what would happen after Hayakawa graduated at the time they’d broken up, though that’s perhaps one of the reason they had, how short-sighted and self-centered Kasamatsu had accused Kise of being (and he hadn’t been totally wrong).  
  
Still, though, despite that last fight, the bad way it had gone out, leaving them both with scorch marks on their arms, Kise misses him. Kaiou basketball’s always going to be Kasamatsu telling him he may be the ace but that doesn’t mean he can do whatever the fuck he wants, Kasamatsu talking about responsibility, taking a hardline stance on discipline. Kasamatsu, guiding them to the semifinals, ending up with way worse than he’d deserved. And so, if Kise can't give the button to Kasamatsu, if he can’t talk to him about sharing the number four, he can leave the button right where Kasamatsu’s is, in the back of the clubroom. Already, Komatsu’s taken over most of the captain’s space, but in the back of the small cubby, Kasamatsu's button sits. Kise puts his on top, nested inside it. Maybe some kind of fitting metaphor, maybe not, but all of this is over now. He’s done with Kaijou, Kaijou basketball; he can’t go back regardless of what mark it’s going to leave on him. He’s done with these old feelings, this kind of sentimentality.


	42. momoriko, ladies' knight

The theme tonight is Ladies’ Knight, and though most of the club’s patrons seem to think it means men with rubber broadswords and women in long dresses or fancy hats, Satsuki had decided to bust out the cosplay armor she’d probably never have much of a chance to wear again. The bouncer had raised an eyebrow and let her in, told her she could probably get a free shot from the bartender with an outfit like that, even though drinks are half off for women anyway.  
  
Satsuki makes her way through the crowds over to the bar, trying to get used to the thumping music that’s making her costume vibrate against itself. She will, eventually, and the alcohol’s going to help. Sure enough, the bartender passes her over a shot glass of whiskey on the house, and Satsuki gulps it down. She orders some fruity shit she'd never usually get because of the insane price tag but, well, at half price it’s probably not that bad.  
  
It’s sweet; she knows that always covers the alcohol but people say that like it’s a bad thing. It’s too bad this costume isn’t well-equipped for dancing, because maybe she would. If she’d found her lady, that is.  
  
She doesn’t have to look too long to find someone she’d thought would be here (okay, someone she’d calculated probably would), someone who catches her eye and looks at Satsuki in surprise.  
  
“What’s with the armor?” says Riko.  
  
“I’m dressing according to the theme,” says Satsuki. “You’re not.”  
  
“That part’s optional,” says Riko, looking down at her sweaty bared midriff. “Don’t like it?”  
  
Satsuki can smell the alcohol on her breath from here, but that doesn’t mean the boldness isn’t real. “As a matter of fact, I do.”  
  
“Oh,” says Riko; her face is already flushed from the heat of dancing and the alcohol, but it’s now brighter than the cherry in Satsuki’s drink.  
  
Satsuki ends up ditching the armor in an alley on the way out of the club, trying to get her arms around Riko better (plus it’s way too fucking hot for that). Riko’s tongue is numb and sweet like the alcohol; her voice is lower in her throat than Satsuki’s heard it before and her hands are everywhere, taking what she wants. This is exactly the kind of lady Satsuki had had in mind, even if she doesn’t need protection or someone singing up at her from below her bedroom window.


	43. akamido, wooden cactus

There is a wooden cactus next to Midorima’s place at the table, on top of the well-worn book on shogi he always consults before their games (there is a certain comfort in this action for him, even though he already knows it cover to cover most probably). It’s not his lucky item; Akashi had thought that it might be at first but Midorima’s been carrying a two-liter bottle of seltzer everywhere today, and has thwarted Aomine’s many attempts to drink it. And if it were Midorima’s lucky item, he would have taken it with him to fetch the shogi board; the seltzer had gone and the cactus had stayed.  
  
It’s quite lovely, an intricate design, whittled out of a softer wood, a glaze finish that doesn’t dilute the natural whorls and lines of the tree from which it came.  
  
“That’s a lovely cactus,” Akashi says, when Midorima comes back in.  
  
“Thank you,” says Midorima. “I bought it for you. As a gift.”  
  
His cheeks are flushing bright; Akashi smiles. Midorima does know him well, the simple kind of thing he likes to keep around, something he has room for in the small space reserved for team captain.  
  
“Thank you, Midorima,” says Akashi.   
  
He reaches his hand across the table to cover Midorima’s; were Midorima still carrying the box with the shogi board and tiles he would have probably dropped it and scattered tiles all over the floor, and as it is his expression wobbles. He’s so cute, in this utterly transparent way, refreshing when Akashi has to deal with adults all the time, or the more difficult members of the Teikou basketball team (Aomine, for instance, or Kuroko). But Midorima is clear and bright, not at all murky in the same ways, and he wants, so clearly, to please Akashi. And, most of the time, he succeeds, especially when it’s something like this, small and thoughtful. Midorima truly is a wonder among Akashi’s classmates.  
  
They set up the shogi board in silence, Midorima’s face returning to its normal color in the process. Akashi wins, of course, but Midorima puts up an excellent fight, a formidable fight.  
  
“I’m glad to have an opponent like you,” Akashi says, kissing Midorima’s mouth atop the board, his winning position still set up.  
  
“Thank you,” Midorima says, lowering his eyes but not before Akashi sees in them resolve, to win tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever that opportunity comes.


	44. murahimu, flower crown

Atsushi’s hair is ideal for weaving flowers in and out of, the stems tied between strands and in each other. He’s not asleep but for this he’s accommodating, letting Tatsuya thread his fingers like needles, tying the clovers and daisies into a messy approximation of a crown around his head. Atsushi sighs at Tatsuya’s touch to his scalp, closing his eyes, tilting his head just right in Tatsuya’s lap. It’s heavy but Tatsuya’s got nowhere to go, nothing else to do than tuck a stray strand of hair behind Atsushi’s ear and a stray stem up under the knot. There’s no point to this, really, a mindless diversion from the lack of anything else to do in these woods, but Tatsuya’s not bored.  
  
He leans back on his hands; Atsushi shifts and his eyes are still closed. He could fall asleep anywhere, and there’s no reason for him not to here, while Tatsuya’s awake. The bed of leaves and grass doesn’t look that comfortable, though Tatsuya’s sat on worse (slept on worse himself, if they’re measuring). They should get back to the others; Tatsuya can hear them talking from the next clearing over, Okamura yelling at Fukui and Liu again, Coach saying something. They should, but he’d really rather not, just let it be the two of them for a while.   
  
They only rarely get time together, and as the season and the summer go on, it seems as if they’re getting less and less, even though they’re playing together more. It’s like Atsushi’s basketball, whatever understanding Tatsuya has of it, is slipping right through his fingers, smoother through them than Atsushi’s hair.  
  
“He looks kind of like a fairy,” says Fukui, peering into the clearing.  
  
He does, a bit, if you’re looking at him in the whimsical kind of way, and if you ignore the fact that he’s nearly seven feet tall.   
  
“Do we need to go?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Fukui. “Just about time. I’ll let you wake him up.”  
  
“I’m awake,” says Atsushi, clear from his voice that he’s not.   
  
He sits up; several of the flowers slip down and fall from his hair.  
  
“You ruined the effect,” says Fukui.  
  
Atsushi glares, but when Fukui heads back toward the rest Tatsuya leans in to kiss Atsushi, in time for some of the remaining flowers to fall between their faces. Atsushi’s lips quirk up, an approximation of a smile (unusual for him, but still a sight, a feeling for Tatsuya to press his mouth against). The woods aren’t all bad, though they do leave much to be desired.


	45. nijihimu, motorcycle

Tatsuya turns the engine off; the familiar buzzing whirr like a vibrating cell phone turned to supersize dies away. Shuu won’t be long, but it’s no good to leave it running uselessly while he waits. He hefts Shuu’s helmet in his hand, the small chip in the visor that still needs to be replaced, the familiar weight. Shuu’s bike is back in the shop this week (the engine trouble’s finally bad enough that he’s getting it replaced), but Tatsuya doesn’t mind ferrying him around for a couple of weeks, taking him to work or on errands (checks to deposit, library books to return, groceries to buy). It’s nice to ride on his own, or to ride solo on his bike with Shuu at his side, but sometimes it’s nicer to have Shuu right behind him, arms around his waist, helmet against his shoulder.   
  
Tatsuya pulls out his phone to check the weather; it’s not supposed to rain until late tonight, when they should be home (though he never likes to rule out a late-night excursion), but the sky’s been getting cloudier and cloudier. It’s not quite overcast now, brightly backlit by the sun, shining through the trees. He can see Shuu through the window of the ATM place, swearing at the machine because it won’t accept his checks. Tatsuya leans on the handlebars; it’s cute. Finally the machine seems to cooperate, and Shuu finishes his transactions; Tatsuya’s still leaning on the handlebars when he comes out, replacing his wallet in his jacket pocket.  
  
“Sorry it took so long,” says Shuu; he kisses Tatsuya from the curb, where he has to lean down an awfully long way (but Tatsuya doesn’t mind looking up at him from here).  
  
“That’s okay,” says Tatsuya. “I got to watch you.”  
  
“Yeah, my ineptitude at depositing a fucking check,” says Shuu, but he kisses Tatsuya on the nose before taking back his helmet and sliding it over his head.   
  
Tatsuya puts on his own and revs up the engine, waiting for Shuu to get on all the way, arms tight around his waist before he turns it toward the street. He doesn’t need to tell Shuu to hold on before they’re off, weaving through traffic on the busier main roads, and maybe sharing a lane with a car is illegal and dangerous, but it’s the faster way to the scenic route, and if it makes Shuu hold on just a little bit tighter as they head forward into the wind.


	46. aokagahimu, bar night

“The music here sucks,” says Daiki, but Taiga hasn’t been listening to it.  
  
How can he, when he’s here with the two of them? They haven’t been talking, sure, but Taiga’s been looking and he kind of doesn’t have much room for other senses (well, touch, too; feet against his barstool and hands grazing his legs almost as if they’re not there). He could have been eating and drinking anything, though he’s starting to feel the alcohol, as opposed to Daiki’s one drink and Tatsuya’s unlimited tolerance. Taiga kind of wants to lean his head on Tatsuya’s shoulder, look up at his face, see his pretty lower lashes the way he only gets to when they’re about to go to sleep.   
  
Tatsuya looks at him, smiling like he knows exactly what Taiga’s thinking, holding the empty shot glass in his hand. “You about done, too?”  
  
“I’m not,” Daiki says, but Taiga can see how tired he’s getting, curling around the edges like old paper, leaning steadily more and more on the edge of the bar.   
  
“Yeah,” Taiga says. “Sorry if you wanted to stay.”  
  
Tatsuya smiles, still too reserved to say he wants to be where the two of them are, but he’s good at making that part obvious enough now, much more than he has.   
  
“Let’s go home,” says Daiki, hooking his arm around Tatsuya’s waist, and Taiga could say something about not being done but he’s too tired and even though there’s something at the tip of his tongue it falls off when he looks at Daiki, the softness on his face as Tatsuya digs in his pocket for his wallet.  
  
“Let me get it,” says Taiga.  
  
“I drank the most,” says Tatsuya, but he always does and it’s not fair; Taiga’s about to whine but Daiki’s hand reaches over to grasps his as if to tell him to drop it.   
  
Tatsuya leaves the tip for the bartender under the shot glass (what did he have last, whiskey or vodka?) and starts to walk toward the door, seemingly unbothered by the hold Daiki’s got around his waist. Taiga catches up; they can’t all fit through the doorway at once but they can stand together and wait for a cab, Tatsuya walking out close to the street to flag one down while Daiki huddles in the unwelcome cold next to Taiga. He falls half-asleep in the cab, leaning on Taiga’s shoulder; Tatsuya looks over and his gaze meets Taiga’s; his smile’s easy and that’s got nothing to do with liquor.


	47. haikise, medieval au

So he hadn’t obtained this food legitimately, it’s not like a bigass castle like this can’t afford to give this away for free. Especially to just one guy, just one soldier who’s a little bit more weary and torn-up than he ought to be. It’s not that he’s weak or that he needs attention; he’s just pretty fucking hungry and eating something might make him focus better and rest better, and if they’re not going to give him any of the shit that the dainty nobles only ever half-finish, well, it’s not like Shougo’s not used to having to steal things.   
  
“Shougo-kun, there you are!”  
  
Speaking of dainty nobles, the most dainty and noble of them all is standing before him, arms crossed, broadsword (that a skinny guy like him shouldn’t be able to wield) hanging at his waist. So he’s been caught, it wouldn’t be the first time.  
  
“I’m not giving you any of my food,” Shougo says (not that Ryouta’s wanting for food, but he’d ask for it anyway and then pout when he isn’t given any).  
  
“That’s not yours; you stole it from the kitchens,” says Ryouta, sitting down next to Shougo. “But I’m watching my weight.”  
  
“You don’t need to,” says Shougo. “You work out; you could stand to put on some more. Leave a little less realm-defending to people like us.”  
  
“You don’t like your job?”  
  
“I don’t like not being appreciated,” says Shougo. “Living at the castle’s okay, I guess.”  
  
Ryouta looks at him, as if measuring carefully; he’s more clever (only by a little) than he pretends to be. Shougo scowls. He’s probably not going to like wherever this ends up; he tears off another piece of bread with his teeth (fresh, hard crust and soft inner in his mouth, rich and hearty; it’s been too long since he’s gotten this good of a meal).  
  
“Anyway, I was going to bring this for you,” says Ryouta, taking a piece of jerky out of his pocket. “But if you’ve got—”  
  
“Give it to me,” says Shougo.  
  
“Not if you’re being that ungrateful,” says Ryouta, and, oh, does he want to use his superior status right now (it’s so blatantly obvious Shougo almost chokes on it).   
  
But he doesn’t, and that resistance is worth something, even if it’s not as much as Ryouta thinks it is. Shougo stands up, kisses him on the mouth, and snatches the jerky from his hand.  
  
“Thanks.”


	48. haikise, a different medieval au

Shougo is late, as usual. Ryouta sighs and rolls his eyes; at least the shop windows are painstakingly cleaned so he can get a good look at his reflection, smoothing over his bangs and making sure there’s nothing on his face. And it gives him time to look at the wares for sale, overpriced trinkets and spices, silver and teas and a wide assortment of things he doesn’t need to buy. Why this is the designated meeting spot, well—Shougo had picked it; he gets the blame. If Ryouta stays long enough for him to show up.   
  
Shougo doesn’t approach from the hills; Ryouta’s looking that way but he hears the sound of boots on the cobblestones, a breeze of ocean air, and there’s Shougo, hair wild, cloak with mud stuck to the bottom, hurrying down the street, no horse in sight. Ryouta raises his eyebrows; this can’t be good (it’s never good with Shougo, but still).  
  
“Hey,” says Shougo. “I got us passage up north on a ship. Paid in full with what I got from my horse.”  
  
Ryouta wrinkles his nose. “Do I have to work?”  
  
“No, princess,” says Shougo with a theatrical sigh. “My horse is worth more than cabin boy fare.”  
  
It turns out to be not worth much more, not that Ryouta had been expecting first class. It would be nice to have a bigger room on the ship, more rations at dinner, but this isn’t a pleasure cruise, and the small bed’s plenty big enough for both of them, the waves rocking them to sleep while Shougo’s curled around Ryouta’s body, his unkempt hair soft against Ryouta’s neck. This isn’t the adventure Shougo had promised him, all of those years ago, when he’d been barely a decent bandit and Ryouta had just been the youngest child of a metalworker, unbound to his father’s business or anything, really.  
  
“I’ll take you somewhere worth seeing,” Shougo had said. “If you’re really that bored.”  
  
And he hasn’t yet; the middle of the ocean in a transport ship seems no closer than lying at home listening to the sounds of the shop a few meters over as his father worked into the night. And maybe it’s foolish to put his faith in someone like Shougo, but it’s not like Ryouta hasn’t done plenty of stupid things become and come out on top. Maybe he’ll run out of luck (or maybe Shougo’s tongue will do them both in), but maybe not.


	49. rakuzan uncrowned, prank

“Doesn’t Diet Coke work better?” says Nebuya, peering at the materials Hayama’s got assembled.   
  
Mibuchi shoots him a furious glance. “Coke works better. You're not taking my soda for your homemade volcanoes, Kotarou.”  
  
Hayama shrugs. “I don’t know. I think the regular might be the way to go. More sugar, gets everything sticky.”  
  
“Shit,” says Nebuya. “You've really thought this through.”  
  
“Do I look like a man without a plan?”  
  
Nebuya and Mibuchi exchange the same look, a look that says yes, Hayama looks like the idea had just popped into his head this afternoon and for whatever reason he’s going to destroy the locker room.  
  
“Coach will probably make us clean it up,” says Mibuchi.  
  
“Team bonding,” says Hayama. “Plus, if we cover everyone in soda, their squawking will be totally worth it.”  
  
“Sometimes I wonder about you,” says Nebuya.  
  
Mibuchi clears his throat, gathering his schoolbag. “Well I, for one, want nothing to do with this. If Kotarou wants to blow up the locker room I take no responsibility.”  
  
“Negligence,” says Nebuya.   
  
“Please, Reo-nee, it’ll be fun…I’ll let you drop the Mentos.”  
  
“And have it explode all over me? I just took a shower.”  
  
Hayama rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’m just trying to have fun. Ei-chan, are you in?”  
  
“If I don’t leave soon, I’ll miss the Gyudon special at that place down the street.”  
  
It’s a flimsy excuse, but Hayama doesn’t push it.  
  
*  
  
Two hours later, they’ve all been rounded up out of their dorms (except Akashi, who lives at home and of course has nothing to do with this horrible prank, although Nebuya privately thinks he might have given Hayama the idea in the first place). The locker room is even worse than Hayama had promised, two empty Coke bottles lying in their own filth, so to speak, half-melted Mentos stuck to the floor and lines of soda everywhere, dried on the benches and locker and floor.  
  
“So,” says Shirogane. “I want to know who did this.”   
  
Hayama stays silent (he’s got a hell of a good poker face when he wants to); most of his teammates are glancing around but no one’s point anyone out. Nebuya counts to five in his head, and when no one says anything, he sighs.  
  
“I did it. I’ll clean it up.”  
  
It’s an obvious lie, but one that lets Mibuchi guilt the freshmen into helping (even if he doesn’t help very much himself, and neither does Hayama, the asshole).


	50. nebumibu, piercing

“I know what I’m doing,” says Reo.  
  
“I wasn’t worried, but now that you say that…” Eikichi says. “Kidding.”  
  
Reo frowns at the piercing gun in his hand, definitely not allowed on Rakuzan’s premises but it’s not like that’s ever stopped any of them from having space heaters, box fans, coffee pots, alcohol, or various other contraband (as per the Rakuzan student handbook, which is only ever read so that students know exactly what to hide during inspections).   
  
“You just want one hole, in your left ear, right?”  
  
“Right,” says Eikichi.   
  
His hair’s not long enough to need to pull aside; there’s a small mark that Reo had placed right on his earlobe, almost mistakable for a mole. He’d measured it, right at the center; the earring (pointed tip, gold, expensive) sits on his end table. Reo dabs a cotton swab into the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and then swipes both sides of Eikichi’s ear. Another cotton swab cleans the earrings, and he loads up the gun. Maybe Reo should have brought over the bourbon hidden in the back of his closet, but it’s too good to waste on this (though, shots, maybe).   
  
“Hold steady.”  
  
Eikichi is remarkable at following orders, keeping his eyes open, trying to look at the gun as Reo positions it. And then he pulls it shut, quick and much louder than he thought it would be.   
  
“That…didn’t hurt much,” says Eikichi.  
  
“It’s because I’m such an excellent jeweler,” says Reo.  
  
“Must be it,” says Eikichi, grinning at Reo and pulling him down for a kiss.  
  
Reo looks him over once they break apart, the gold ball in his ear shining against his skin. It looks good (it’ll look even better when he gets a hoop or a stone in there, but that’s six weeks into the future). Eikichi looks back at him, trying to read his expression, probably.  
  
“If you ever want another hole,” says Reo. “Ear, nose, lip…”  
  
“I’ll think about it,” says Eikichi. “See how this one turns out, huh?”  
  
Reo tucks the gun back into his bag, along with the bottle of alcohol. They’ve got all day left stretching out before them (well, until afternoon practice) and Reo can think of a lot of things they can do that don’t involve putting stress on Eikichi’s ear, or further use of the piercing gun (but do involve his own room, because Eikichi’s smells too much like meat).


	51. akamayu, reading hugo

Mayuzumi doesn’t know much French, and he’s not about to sit down with Hugo and a French-Japanese dictionary. _Les Miserables_ isn’t even his favorite, but damn if he’s not impressed that the university library could come up with a first edition in such excellent state. He’s not allowed to handle it for more than half an hour, and the librarian (fucking busybody) keeps coming back to check, but it’s still pretty damn cool. It’s a little whimsical, sure, but it’s nice to imagine himself, long ago in France, reading this back then, knowing the context instantaneously.  
  
“Hello.”  
  
Of course Akashi had followed him here. Mayuzumi scowls.  
  
“I have the book for the next twenty minutes.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware you spoke French.”  
  
Mayuzumi snorts, carefully breathing away from the book. Saying it like that, what a pompous ass he is. God, Akashi can be so insufferable.  
  
“And you do?”  
  
(Of course Akashi speaks French; he does fucking everything. He probably speaks Chinese and English and, like, Latin and Ancient Greek so flawlessly, the way he does everything else, like if he makes a mistake it somehow gets written into the language as something that had been there all along.)  
  
“May I see the book?”  
  
Mayuzumi is tempted to say no, but he hands it over. Akashi handles the book with appropriate care, at least, turning the pages gently. And then he begins to read aloud. Mayuzumi’s got no idea what he’s saying, recognizes a few names (is that how they're really pronounced?) but not much else, and after a few seconds of attempting to decipher it, closes his eyes and lets the flow of the words rush over him. Akashi could just be making up French-sounding nonsense and he wouldn’t know, but Mayuzumi’s not going to call him on it even if it is true. After about five minutes, Akashi stops, his voice starting to dry and crack around the edges like the pages he’s reading from.  
  
“Thank you,” says Mayuzumi.  
  
He doesn’t miss the gleam of self-satisfaction in Akashi’s eyes, but he supposes it’s alright. Akashi’s going to act like he’s won regardless of whether he actually has or not, and Mayuzumi will cede this much to him. They give the book up before it’s due back, and walk from the library in the cool night air, hands close enough to brush each other, but not much more than that.


	52. kiridai, ouija

“Today,” Hara announces. “We’re going to talk to a ghost.”  
  
“No,” says Hanamiya. “I don’t want any part of it.”  
  
“But Hanamiya,” Hara whines, trying to clutch at him (Hanamiya dodges, and Hara unfortunately does not fall to the ground, catching himself before that). “It’s going to be awesome. We’ll get the secrets of the supernatural—”  
  
“Are you reading off an infomercial?”  
  
“Well, off the back of the board,” says Hara, brandishing a ouija set.   
  
“I thought it sounded cool,” says Yamazaki.  
  
“No,” says Hanamiya.  
  
Despite Hanamiya’s loudest protests, his idiot teammates have set up the stupid thing, Furuhashi and Yamazaki sitting across from each other with the board balancing on their knees. Seto is fast asleep again; he’d appeared briefly interested (fucking traitor) before having the grace to at least do that and be quiet. Hara is facilitating, if one were to call it that.  
  
“It says here you need a man and a woman. Which one of you is it going to be?”  
  
“Him,” says Yamazaki.  
  
“What does the woman’s role entail?”  
  
“I dunno. Show your womanly charms or something,” says Hara with a shrug. “Anyway, the man and the woman balance the board like that, and then you put your fingertips on the thingy in the middle and ask a question to the ghost.”  
  
“What ghost?” says Yamazaki.  
  
“Whichever one’s here,” says Hara.   
  
“Uh…who are you?” says Yamazaki.  
  
Nothing happens on the board; of course it’s fucking bullshit. Hanamiya rolls his eyes and clears his throat.  
  
“Can we do something more—”  
  
“You’re destroying the spiritual energy! Ask it again, Yamazaki.”  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
Nothing happens, yet again; Hanamiya crosses his arms (do they really have to wait for fucking ever to decide that nothing is going to happen). And then, it does; the heart-shaped thing starts to move—because Furuhashi is very obviously jerking his arms toward the letters.  
  
“What the fuck,” says Yamazaki. “You’re moving it, Furuhashi.”  
  
“Am not,” says Furuhashi. “It’s the ghost; they’re moving my arms, too.”  
  
Hara is cackling; Hanamiya feels that covering his face with his palm would be too much right now.   
  
“Just finish your damn game so we can do something else. Something interesting, that doesn’t involve ghosts.”  
  
“The ghost isn’t done yet,” says Furuhashi, still moving the piece across the board, even when Yamazaki lets go.  
  
Hanamiya sighs, looking at Seto, still asleep. Maybe he’s got the right idea after all.


	53. kiyohyuuriko, magical realism

“If we ground the phoenix feathers into the fire, it should make it burn hotter—”  
  
“And reduce the food to ash,” says Junpei (though, privately, he thinks that it might be better than the time Riko had raided the apothecary and force-fed them some questionable gunk that had turned their teeth rainbow for a week, or the usual inedible crap she makes).   
  
For someone who had studied magical properties for twelve years and managed to never slip out of the top five despite managing the magicians team and juggling several hobbies, when it comes to utilizing them in the kitchen she’s completely hopeless. More accurately, it’s stepping into a kitchen that makes her hopeless (and Junpei has tried, numerous times, to refer her to a curse specialist, someone who might be able to solve her problem because it’s definitely not normal and there is no nonmagical explanation for this) and her terrible (though inventive) applications of magical properties to cooking are just an extension of that.   
  
“Riko,” says Junpei.  
  
“You try making it.”  
  
“What’s going on?”  
  
It’s always Teppei who ends up mediating; Junpei’s told Riko a billion times before that her cooking sucks but it never gets through to her. Teppei doesn’t seem to want to (out of politeness, or maybe something else, something that drags on him like—a thought that Junpei can’t quite grasp, some kind of illusion that doesn’t make sense, but the more he thinks about Teppei the more the thought escapes him, as always) but he ends up cooling the situation down, throwing their flames in a bucket of water (only sometimes literally).  
  
“No phoenix feathers on the gas stove,” says Junpei.  
  
“Why don’t we get takeout?” says Teppei.  
  
(Because they always end up getting takeout and there’s produce and meat getting moldy in the fridge, because maybe if Riko does it enough she’ll break this ridiculous curse, because Junpei’s kind of stupid to hope all of this.)  
  
“Yeah,” says Junpei.  
  
“Are you sure?” says Riko.   
  
“We can save the phoenix feathers for later,” says Teppei, wrapping one arm around Riko’s waist and ushering all of them out of the kitchen.  
  
Junpei’s mouthing a thank you to Teppei when Teppei kisses his open mouth; he hears a little laugh out of Riko and what’s so fucking funny about this, huh? Junpei doesn’t say it when he can, though; there’s a menu to look through and prices to argue over and Riko’s hand to reach for across the broadness of Teppei’s back.


	54. aokuromomo, external heart

Tetsu’s at the door with a box, wrapped up in ribbon neatly, like someone at the store had done it (but more probably Tetsu himself). He’d rung the doorbell as he always had before one day Satsuki had just given him her spare key (and before things had gone to shit after that). Daiki squints at him; this had better not be something crafted in an elaborate imitation of the real thing, an apology because Tetsu thinks it ought to make them forgive him.   
  
“May I?” says Tetsu.  
  
Half of Daiki wants to slam the door in his face, get in front of Satsuki and protect her (she’d been the one protecting him throughout all of this, and yet) and the other half crumbles and sends the first half falling on its face. This is Tetsu; Daiki can never say no. He waves Tetsu on in, and follows him into the living room.  
  
Daiki had been watching some boring shit on TV with Satsuki, his arm around her, still pretending like they didn’t miss Tetsu (and still thinking that someday soon that pretending would become real, that they wouldn’t miss him at all; it isn’t now and it isn’t when he places the box in Satsuki’s lap.  
  
“Tetsu-kun?”  
  
“You told me to come back when I had a heart to give you.”  
  
Oh. Shit. This isn’t—Tetsu wouldn’t steal anyone else’s heart, not for this purpose; even with nothing in the cavity in his chest he knows that’s not the point. There’s no way he could have gotten his own, not after having searched for so long, is there? But Satsuki will know; she opens the box and inside is definitely a heart. It’s fluttering, too soft to rattle the box but enough for it to move and pulse inside, visibly.   
  
“Oh, Tetsu-kun.”  
  
She might cry; she probably will, an immovable wall except when it comes to the two of them. Daiki rubs her shoulder, looking at Tetsu’s face. The heart’s not inside of him, not attached yet (they’re going to have to pay some kind of mage a steep fee, but the price will be worth it to have Tetsu back, Tetsu whole, with all of himself). Satsuki’s already crying, but Daiki is, too, and he’s the one who reaches for Tetsu to bring him into a hug, folded between the two of them like he’d never left that spot, like it’s the most natural thing in the universe.


	55. murahimu, little mermaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoilery content warnings at end

Tatsuya hasn’t felt so clearly the open cavity of his mouth, the space and the stump where a tongue used to be, since the first day. The bottoms of his feet (exclaimed over, how could they be softer than a baby’s) have since hardened; he is used to the steps he takes feeling like knives up through his ankles, ever time he walks, every time he dances. The stab is sharp, a little duller, a reminder of what he’s done to himself, all of the things he had thrown away (status, power, speech, song, his entire life).   
  
And Taiga, shorn of his brilliant red hair, Taiga, whom Tatsuya had thought he had lost forever, had not seen in so long—Taiga has given him a choice. A dagger, of the sea, of the same witch who had given Tatsuya the opportunity to be here, to come to the surface, to live as a human. A farce, really, that’s all this had been the whole time. A terrible parody, in imitation of a real human. It’s got nothing to do with his inability to talk, but more his unfamiliarity with everything, the way he can’t catch on quite quickly enough, the way his own royal manners are no good up here. A different culture, something he cannot translate himself to.  
  
It had been him all along, him who had rescued the prince and he’d thought that perhaps the prince would see, would recognize it. He had thought, sometimes, a gleam in the prince’s violet eyes had signified acknowledgement. He’s clever, clever enough to recognize something he knows when he sees it, or apparently not. He only recognizes the one he had seen, but some things cannot be seen; some things can be felt. But all of this feeling is on Tatsuya’s side; he is alone and he has not held up his end of the bargain.  
  
Take the easy out, take Taiga’s sacrifice. Go back, face the shame. Kill Atsushi, lying so sweetly asleep here. Use the dagger.   
  
He can’t. It’s not so simple as that; Tatsuya’s burned the bridges behind him and he’s not about to clamor back up; he has made this situation what it is and the consequences are his to shoulder, until he dissolves. Merfolk are not meant for more than this.  
  
He closes the door behind him, walking to the edge of the deck. The sea, below, is everything he has known. The foam, blowing away, that he will become. Tatsuya hurls the dagger into the sea; there are only a few hours left before sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explicit details in the vein of the goriest version of this story, implied suicide


	56. nijihimu, spaceship au

The engine groans in a particular way when it needs to be tuned, when the mess of pipes ans fuel have to be soothed like temperamental children. Some engineers joke that the systems are their children, though Shuuzou really wouldn’t go that far. But it’s his, and he knows how to fix it, and it distracts him from the fact that his bed’s still warm but devoid of its recent addition. He’d left his shirt over the back of Shuuzou’s chair, the white that all officers are required to wear but is heinously impractical for an engine room, and had apparently stolen one of Shuuzou’s to go wherever he was needed. Two can play at that; Shuuzou picks up the shirt and pops it over his head; after a second he picks up Tatsuya’s eyepatch (where had he gone without that?) and his ID, better not to explain to any junior engineers poking around why the captain’s personal items are in Shuuzou’s quarters.  
  
The engine is a quick tune-up; Shuuzou whispers words of encouragement he knows are unnecessary to the pipes, checks on all the fuel levels, and returns within ten minutes. Tatsuya’s already back, two cups of coffee and what looks like a full breakfast set down on Shuuzou’s desk, sitting on the bed wearing just Shuuzou’s shirt, half-buttoned, and his bangs combed over his dead eye. Oh, shit. Shuuzou’s mouth dries up.  
  
“Sorry for leaving you,” Tatsuya says. “I thought you might be hungry.”  
  
(Hungry for you, Shuuzou wants to say, but even he’s not quite that cheesy. Instead, he nods.)  
  
“Thanks. I, uh.” He points his thumb toward the engine room. “Thought you might have had something like that.”  
  
“No, not at all,” says Tatsuya. “I’d have to go all-out, proper attire, hair off my face, that sort of thing.”   
  
“Well,” says Shuuzou, looking at him again, the way the tails of Shuuzo’s shirt cover half his thighs, the sleeves rolled up, the view of quite a lot of Tatsuya’s chest, his legs so obviously toned despite the time out in deep space (though you don’t get to be captain without the physical stuff, you don’t have to keep it up to stay there), Tatsuya's face, halfway covered by his hair, less severe and a softer kind of beautiful than he is, all sharp-dressed in a captain's uniform.  
  
“Well?” Tatsuya prompts.  
  
“Food later?” says Shuuzou. “You did that on purpose; don’t think I won’t call you on it.”  
  
Tatsuya laughs. “It’ll get cold. Maybe I want to make you wait.”   
  
“Maybe I don’t want to wait,” says Shuuzou.


	57. garciraki, temple

They’d left Masako’s bike chained up out front, good enough to keep anyone from taking it for as long as they’re away (at least, it should be). It’s a little too quiet up here, too far from anyone aside from those who might be lurking in the shadows, but you can never be too cautious. A lifetime of wariness has taught Masako that much, anyway, in places both familiar and not. And this is both, a place in particular she’s never gone into but also a thousand temples, a million abandoned sites where she’d hid out with her gang back in the day, keeping lookout and leading the way, sword slung over her shoulder in a way she’d thought had made her look oh so casual and tough. But this time she's here with Alex, one hand in her pocket and the other pulling Alex along.   
  
They’d made a lot of noise, back in the day; they’d been so obnoxiously irreverent, winding up adults and other gangs and the kids their age who’d just wanted to do the right thing. It’s been a long time since Masako’s thought about it in those terms; her conscience has long since made peace with it but it’s still nothing particularly pleasant. Alex squeezes her hand; perhaps now if there are still (or ever) any spirits here, this makes up for it a bit.   
  
They reach the inner courtyard, overgrown with thick vines and trees that crack the stone, weeds that poke up in violent, dense patches. This kind of destruction and abandonment tends to get overly romanticized, and Masako’s not exactly sentimental, but it still touches her somewhere on the inside, somewhere not exactly warm. When was the last time humans had touched this place? Alex may be thinking on a similar path, but she’s dropped Masako’s hand, attentions on something in one corner. Her footsteps are quiet on the ground as she approaches, drops down to pick it up.   
  
It’s a rusted-out fountain pen, missing its cap; it had once perhaps been blue (or maybe that’s just an extension of the rust discoloration). Any number of people could have trampled down the pants, stepped through this far, covered their tracks, left nothing, in the months since this was dropped. That doesn’t mean they did; it doesn’t mean they didn’t. Alex pockets the pen and wipes her hand on her shorts; streaks of metallic red stand out against the light wash denim. Masako takes her hand back anyway.


	58. kiyokaga, picking locks

“I thought you knew how to pick a lock,” says Taiga.  
  
“I never said I did,” says Teppei, so cheerfully too.  
  
It’s two in the morning and they still haven’t made their way in and the cops or someone could get here any minute and Teppei had fucking suggested this and all Taiga really wants to do at this point is sleep. That’s what they should be doing, back in his apartment, not aggravating Teppei’s knee all over again.   
  
“Let’s go home,” says Taiga. “It didn’t work; you busted the hairpin—”  
  
“Let me try my knife?” says Teppei.  
  
“Okay, but that’s it.”  
  
Teppei seems entirely unfazed; Taiga’s not going to let him push that much more. It’s a little bit much, a lot more than he’s wanted to give already—and then with a snap, the padlock opens; Teppei grins.  
  
“See?”  
  
“Did you break it?”  
  
Teppei shrugs and pockets the lock, and fuck they’ll be in huge trouble—not only did they break in, they screwed up the lock; they have it still in their possession, and here’s where Teppei would say Taiga worries too much, but he doesn’t worry nearly enough.   
  
“Let’s go.”  
  
Teppei’s hand is warm around Taiga’s, so much bigger, wrapping around his; every time he does this he knows exactly what he’s doing but at this point Taiga can’t even argue. He’s not even sure what they’re going to do here (screw around in the gym? Swim in the school pool? Bust into someone's locker? Just play at being delinquents for a bit?) and maybe trusting Teppei so completely ins’t the best idea, but it’s not like it’s completely voluntary.   
  
Teppei stops by the chained-up canteen; they’re not going to be able to get any food right now but Taiga’s stomach growls, anyway.  
  
“Always hungry, huh?”  
  
“Take me to McDonald’s when we’re done?”  
  
Teppei hums; Taiga knows he’s being a little bratty, but he’d still rather be at home. Teppei sits down, pulling Taiga onto his lap (hopefully, maybe not bad for his knee like this) and points up at the sky. Taiga squints; the moon is half-visible from behind the clouds, nearly full but slightly imperfect and still quite pretty. They could have looked at this from somewhere else, but Taiga keeps that to himself for right now. Teppei’s smiling, and it’s pretty comfortable sitting like this, his head on Teppei’s shoulder and Teppei’s thumb stroking Taiga’s waist through his shirt.


	59. haikaga, magic au

A snap of Shougo’s fingers could collapse the air in Taiga’s palm, burn it all to ash, destroying the steady flame, the stream of smoke at the end. He could; he has; he does. It’s the way they destroy, raze the scene until it feels as if their lungs will give out from breathing in the burning air and then collapsing it all, everything around them turning to grey dust, the aftermath but in the moment, smoldering but not enough to build another flame.   
  
Shougo’s magic is more permanent, until it’s swept away, taken off for a magical traces test (Taiga’s flames are all but erased; the most that could be said about that source was that it was most likely matical, held up by supporting evidence but never proven). It’s because of Shougo that they’re on the run, Shougo and his utterly physical, solid magic. He doesn’t tell Taiga not to stick around, but sometimes he wonders why he has for so long. Maybe it’s easier this way than to find another finisher, even one who’s easier to get along with. Maybe it’s because Shougo’s good at what he does, and that’s enough.   
  
“Maybe you should remember not to broadcast your thoughts, dumbass,” says Taiga, plunging his hand into the river in front of him.   
  
He sits on the bank and pats the place beside him; Shougo sits and keeps his bare hands from touching the grass, singeing it (he can control; he does control, but Taiga’s liable to do something and they’ve already put down too many traces here).   
  
“It’s apparently only ever on your frequency, Radio Receiver.”  
  
“If that was an attempt at an insult, it didn’t work,” says Taiga.  
  
“Who says it was? You’re the cutest radio I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“And the hottest?”  
  
“I’ll let you walk right into that one,” says Shougo.  
  
Taiga reaches across, brushing his hand over the shell of Shougo’s ear, carefully avoiding the row of earrings that Shougo had learned the hard way definitely conduct Taiga's heat (even though Shougo doesn’t; even though they could press their bodies up against each other and hurl the most primary power they can muster at each other and have no effect either way). Shougo doesn’t have to be able to read Taiga’s thoughts to see it in his eyes, the you know why I keep you around, and okay. It’s not like it hasn’t occurred to Shougo, but it’s not the kind of thing he likes to bank on.


	60. nijikaga, batting cage

“Want to give it another round? I got a bunch more quarters,” says Taiga, digging in his pocket.  
  
“You can go again,” says Shuuzou.   
  
“Come on,” says Taiga, touching Shuuzou’s hand through the fence and shit, maybe that’s too forward (it’s the first date; they’ve been blustering around each other for a bit but still).   
  
Shuuzou doesn’t seem to take it as more or less than what Taiga had meant, smiling softly (the batting cage had been his suggestion after all, and, well; he’s good, better than Taiga, better than his athlete’s hand-eye coordination would give him as a starting point). Taiga steps out, hands over the helmet and bat, and feeds the machine.  
  
Shuuzou’s stance looks nice, not that Taiga knows much about baseball (there was that guy for the Red Sox a while back with that weird stance where he’d stuck out his ass and wiggled the bat; some of his middle school friends had imitated it for shits and giggles, but this looks a little more natural, more relaxed but just as focused). And it’s nice enough to get him to connect more often than not, timing the pitches and sending them straight back to the machine.   
  
“You play,” Taiga accuses him as he steps out after the time runs out.  
  
“Not really,” says Shuuzou. “Not since I was a kid.”  
  
Taiga shrugs. “You looked good though. Like you knew what you were doing.”  
  
“It’s just muscle memory, I guess,” says Shuuzou. “Did you have fun?”  
  
He wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve; his bangs are sticking up at a weird angle and Taiga leans over to flatten them out, almost without thinking.   
  
“Yeah, I did,” says Taiga, his voice breaking as he realizes just how close their faces are.  
  
“That’s good,” says Shuuzou, closing the distance between them and kissing Taiga lightly.   
  
Taiga’s pretty sure his face is all red now, and his mouth feels like it can’t move; he wants to kiss Shuuzou again and then watch him hit for another hour and okay, he’s pretty pathetic. But Shuuzou’s smiling at him the same way Taiga feels, warm and soft like a heated blanket.   
  
“You said dinner after, right?” says Shuuzou.  
  
Taiga nods.  
  
“Great; let’s get some.”  
  
This time he’s the one who touches Taiga’s hand and, oh. If Shuuzou had wanted this even half as much as Taiga did, well, he’d done the right thing back there.


	61. nijihimu, cinderella au

He’d fucked it up. Royally, so to speak, if Tatsuya’s in that kind of mood, which he really, really, isn’t. The story always goes like this, the beautiful princess in the pumpkin carriage with the matching glass slipper—except he’d stumbled and fallen in his haste (dancing in glass is hard enough, but running, his fault he’d stayed too damn long) and now the matching slipper is shards in his hand. There are shallow cuts in his palm; they’ll sting when he has to clean tomorrow. He deserves it, for fucking this up, his one chance, the prince smiling so softly at the man he’d thought was so beautiful in splendor, the man who now wears rags and has no way of getting home.   
  
The mouse-horses have scampered off, probably food for some cat or wild animal; his feet are bare but his soles are tough. He’d made it to the shadows; the prince is probably standing at the top, waiting to be whisked away by some other beautiful person, his momentary preoccupation with the almost fairy tale broken. Perhaps he’ll see this as a rude prank, a twist. Keep the glass slipper as a lark, when Tatsuya’s smashed this one to dust.   
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Fuck. The prince. Crown prince Shuuzou (Shuu, he’d let Tatsuya call him that, Tatsuya had let himself be that bold), acting as regent in his ill father’s place; this is his night of fun, to choose a suitable spouse, the child of a potential ally, someone powerful. He shouldn’t have followed; where are his bodyguards?  
  
“You tripped; I thought you might be hurt.”  
  
Tatsuya turns; it’s obvious now he’s dressed in rags, his feet are bare, his hand is bleeding; he looks every bit the part of pathetic street urchin.  
  
“Your hand!”  
  
“It’s nothing,” says Tatsuya. “Please, I’ll never get home in time. I’m needed there.”  
  
Shuu looks him up and down, and then nods. “Okay. I’ll take you back.”  
  
“From your own party.” Tatsuya lets the skepticism fall from his lips; he might as well mouth off to royalty while he’s at it.  
  
“Not my scene anyway,” says Shuu. “I’ll fix your hand, lend you a pair of shoes—hey, that sounds. Ugh.”  
  
Shuu runs his hand through his hair, and then looks at Tatsuya again. It’s like they’re back under the lights, and Tatsuya’s wearing gorgeous clothes, and he’s not cut up and covered in glass and pumpkin seeds.   
  
“Please let me take you home?”  
  
(He’ll see; he’ll know—he already knows, though; if they get back quick they’ll get there before Tatsuya’s missed.)   
  
Tatsuya nods.


	62. ao&mido, in the park

It’s fucking hot out. The heat was supposed to have broken, but the weather people don’t really know what they’re talking about; Aomine trusts his gut more than he trusts them, and here he is in the park with Midorima in the heat, wiping his brow on the end of his shirt again.  
  
“Why do we need to be doing this now?”  
  
“You can go home,” says Midorima. “Especially if you’re just going to complain.”  
  
Aomine sighs. As good as his bed sounds right now, he’s too cheap to not split cab fare with Midorima. And that’s not really it; if Aomine’s being honest with himself he doesn’t want this weighing on him if Midorima’s shitty night vision makes him bump into something and get injured and screw up their season and have Coach yell at Aomine for fifty minutes because he’s apparently been appointed Midorima’s minder or something (never mind that neither of them would say anything about this adventure, Coach always fucking knows). Why did they have to end up on the same pro team, and why have Midorima’s stupid superstitions gotten this ridiculous?  
  
“Fine,” Aomine says, kicking at the dirt.  
  
It’s dark, even with the lights on the path; the glow of a vending machine is visible up ahead. Refreshment, fucking finally. Midorima’s already up ahead, going to get there first. Aomine slows his pace, watches as Midorima feeds the machine with coins from his pocket and then he presses the button twice. Aomine’s about to ask him if he’s that thirsty, when Midorima hands him one of the cans of cold shiruko.  
  
“The machine gave me two.”  
  
That’s the baldest lie Aomine’s ever heard, but it’s nice to know despite the fact they’ve gone pro, despite everything that’s happened since Midorima was just his weird classmate, he’s still the same Midorima.   
  
“Thanks,” says Aomine.   
  
Shiruko’s not his favorite (and he’d appreciate Midorima being open about his thanks for the favor Aomine’s doing him) but when he’s thirsty and hasn’t eaten and it’s hot, shiruko’s pretty damn good. Aomine chugs about half the can in one go; Midorima raises an eyebrow but says nothing.   
  
“Lead the way,” says Aomine.   
  
“Of course,” says Midorima.   
  
They’d better not take all night finding whatever it is, but for now it’s okay. Or at least, it’s not as bad as Aomine had assumed it would be (not that he’s going to give Midorima the satisfaction of hearing that).


	63. midohimu, language of flowers

Midorima wonders how much of the language of flowers Himuro knows. Knowing him, he’ll either be able to bullshit his way through the correct meaning or he actually does know (and Midorima won’t be able to tell the difference anyway). Besides, the meaning of a red rose is obvious from the start, to anyone not at all versed in flowers or symbolism or any of that. Which is why giving it to him, having him know—they’re going out; he doesn’t need to worry about showing his feelings. He should be showing his feelings, letting Himuro know he likes him.   
  
It’s easier said than done, fraught with the perils of letting him know in the right way, a way that’s not too overbearing, not sending the wrong sort of message about what he wants out of this, what he’s interested in, what he’s feeling right now. If only it were so easy to put into words, especially with Himuro being so reserved but mostly receptive. Two people like them, dancing around the subjects, Midorima unsure and Himuro forever passing the ball back, maybe it won’t work in the long run.  
  
It’s too hard to think that far in the future; it’s not advisable. A rose, a box of chocolates, gifts appropriate for Valentine’s Day. Perhaps a bolder gesture than Himuro had wanted or expected, perhaps too bland or generic (but Himuro likes sweets; the flower is not meaningless; still). Midorima has secured his lucky item, a pair of headphones; they’re in the pocket of his scrubs. He exits the office, his patients’ files under his arm, determined not to think about it quite so much.  
  
(Of course, that doesn’t mean he won’t think about it; he does, almost constantly; whenever work leaves him a little unoccupied his thoughts stray once again to Himuros voice, his enigmatic words, his gorgeous face. It’s a little embarrassing to even think about here at work, when his job is important; several of his colleagues have asked him if he’s caught a fever or shouldn’t he go home; he replies that it’s just allergies and the temperature, untrue, but when one of the nurses catches him for a temperature check it comes back negative. It’s all in his head, but that doesn’t make the end of the day, picking Himuro up for the date, any less daunting.)  
  
He’s prepared himself as best he can. And there’s a point where preparation ends and the moment begins, so Midorima tells himself to just enjoy it.


	64. kagahimu, rusty rings

“Cleaning rust off cheap jewelry is easy,” says the man behind the counter, and Taiga feels himself stiffen at the word cheap.  
  
They may be grocery store vending machine quality, but they’re far from that label; they’re worth more than it’s taken to keep them, more than the brief period in which they’d tried to go without wearing them, more than whatever price Tatsuya had paid to repair his own chain.   
  
“Could we get them plated?” says Tatsuya.  
  
“It would be less expensive to get new ones, just between us.”  
  
“I don’t care,” says Taiga. “Whatever it is, we can afford it.”  
  
Tatsuya looks at him, but without the reproach Taiga’s almost expecting; it’s something like approval.  
  
“Could you get them enlarged?” says Tatsuya. “If you’re going to plate them anyway. We’ll pay whatever fee.”  
  
“Oh,” says the man. “Of course, then, of course. To what sizes?”  
  
Taiga shrugs; he’s never worn another ring (never wanted to; for better or for worse this is the ring that defines rings for him—maybe when he wins a championship he’ll get one, but other than that there’s no occasion) and Tatsuya doesn’t seem to know his, either. The salesman seems to take this as an opportunity to push other sets of rings, wedding rings and garish jewel-encrusted things.  
  
“May I ask the occasion?” he says, finally whisking the last of the ruby set away.   
  
Taiga looks at Tatsuya; Tatsuya smiles at him. “We’re a little bit overdue for a resize, is all.”  
  
“Oh, um!” says the salesman, clearly expecting something more official.   
  
Tatsuya squeezes Taiga’s hand on the other side of the counter, probably visible from behind the layers of glass.   
  
“Would you like me to clean the necklaces, too?”  
  
Tatsuya shakes his head. “We’ll keep them for now.”  
  
The chains feel a little empty right now, a little weird without the familiar weight of the ring resting between Taiga’s collarbones. But he thinks about the third finger on his left hand, the familiar place that had once seemed so empty without the ring around it, the place that has been waiting empty all those years, the tan line he’d had that first summer playing basketball in the sun every day with Tatsuya. It’ll be easy to get used to, especially right now when his hand is full, clasped in Tatsuya’s as Tatsuya fishes in his wallet for his credit card.  
  
(“Let me,” Taiga says, but Tatsuya’s already inserting it into the chip reader.)


	65. aokaga, waffle house

“Don’t they have Waffle House in Chicago?” says Aomine.  
  
“Um, no,” says Kagami, glaring at him over the teetering stack of pancakes in front of him (probably cleaned out all the batter left in the entire fucking restaurant). “We have pretty damn good food, but not this.”  
  
“You make me drive all the way out to Canton—”  
  
“I told you I’d take a fucking cab; you’re the one who said you’d come with and didn’t order anything and don’t even think you can take a pancake.”  
  
Aomine pauses, and then continues to reach for the top stack. Kagami wouldn’t point his kinfe at him, would he?   
  
“You could make me pancakes.”  
  
“I could have someone else make them for me and you could order some,” says Kagami. “It’s late and you don’t have ingredients.”  
  
“Are there any left?”  
  
“It’s Waffle House,” says Kagami, with an exasperated and exaggerated eye roll. “Ask the waiter.”  
  
“Yo,” says Aomine, as the waiter passes them. “Can I get what he’s having?”  
  
“Of course,” says the waiter.  
  
“Thanks,” says Aomine.  
  
“Why are you so rude?” says Kagami.  
  
“I said thanks,” says Aomine, rolling his eyes back at Kagami.  
  
“Whatever,” says Kagami, shoveling another stack of quarter-pancakes into his mouth (how he can fit all of that, well, Aomine starts to have some fantasies that are probably mildly inappropriate for the location, but it’s not like there are any parents with kids here right now; he knows how much of his cock fits into Kagami’s mouth and about Kagami’s lack of gag reflex and, God, that’s nice).  
  
“Can you not,” says Kagami.   
  
“Sorry,” says Aomine, with a grin to show that he isn’t, really. “You do this to yourself; your mouth is fucking incredible.”  
  
“We’re in a restaurant. Every time you say this shit I have to add another five percent to the tip and they’re still probably going to hate us.”  
  
“What’s it at now, five hundred?”  
  
“Ha, ha,” says Kagami.  
  
He’s basically already finished his pancakes, and the waiter’s back with Aomine’s.  
  
“Did you enjoy your meal?”  
  
“Yes, thanks,” says Kagami, and damn that smile he gives the waiter is cute.  
  
The waiter smiles back, taking his plate; Aomine kicks him under the table. “Suck up.”  
  
“What? Be nice to the people handling your food.”  
  
“I’m nice to you.”  
  
Kagami snorts. “That must be a recent development.”  
  
“Oi,” says Aomine, but he holds out a forkful of pancake toward Kagami. “Here, get all this in your mouth.”  
  
“I’m leaving,” says Kagami. “I’m taking a cab back to my hotel.”


	66. aokagahimu, air mattress

“Hey, I think I broke your air mattress.”  
  
Daiki looks more than a little bit sheepish, and the mattress looks a little more than questionably-deflated. It’s sagging in the middle; there’s probably a hole on one of the seams but Tatsuya’s got no clue where it could be. They’ve had the mattress for years, anyway; it was Tatsuya’s parents' before he stole it and they’d never asked for it back, and, well.   
  
“That’s okay,” says Tatsuya. “I think I can afford a new one.”  
  
“I’ll buy,” says Daiki. “I might need to make a Target run anyway.”  
  
He’s shifting on his feet; it’s getting pretty late, after dinner and close to bedtime (they’re all such old men this late in the summer; it’s almost laughable). Tatsuya thinks about how if he was living in a porno, this would be the perfect opportunity to invite his very attractive houseguest into bed with him and Taiga. It’s not like they haven’t talked about it, floated the idea of inviting a third person in for a bit, someone they could both have their way with, someone they could watch with each other (and Tatsuya’s just on the verge of getting Taiga to admit he kind of has a cuck fetish, which in and of itself is kind of hot, the idea that Taiga’s that possessive over him) and it’s not like Daiki’s name hasn’t come up in those conversations. Toned muscle, smooth skin, gorgeous eyes; they’re both a little bit into him, and especially when he’s a few feet away, sleeping in their living room, and they’re talking in low voices late at night jerking each other off—and then, Taiga had said last night that they should. Maybe soon, maybe now. So this isn’t a porno, but maybe those scripts are good at cutting to the chase of what should happen, and Daiki doesn’t have a place to sleep right now.  
  
“Well,” says Tatsuya. “We have a bed with room.”  
  
Daiki’s breath stutters; his eyes grow wider in a very good way. “You mean…”  
  
“Yeah,” says Tatsuya. “We’d been thinking about asking you, but now might be a good time.”  
  
“Taiga’s okay with this?”  
  
“He’s been pushing for it,” says Tatsuya. “Not that I don’t want it—Taiga!”  
  
Taiga pokes his head out of the kitchen. “What’s up?”  
  
“I think Daiki might want to join us.”  
  
“For—?” says Taiga, and then. “Oh. Shit, yes.”  
  
His cheeks are flushed; apparently whatever he’s been doing in the kitchen can wait as he strides across the room. It’s just the three of them, Taiga and Tatsuya on one side and Daiki on the other, until Tatsuya pulls Daiki in for a kiss.


	67. momoalex, hot spring

“Here,” says Satsuki. “I’ll show you how to fold the towel on my head.”  
  
“I can’t see like this, you know,” says Alex, wry smile twisting at her lips, visible through the steam to Satsuki.   
  
“That’s okay,” says Satsuki. “Just feel.”  
  
She moves forward until she and Alex are nearly pressed chest to chest, where Alex can see her at least part of the way. The water is hot around her, but the way Alex’s face is relaxing, her toes brushing Satsuki’s ankle underwater, makes Satsuki’s cheeks burn (they’re probably brighter than her eyes right now). Alex’s hair is dragging in the water, fanning out under the surface, a rich and gorgeous color even in this kind of lighting. Satsuki bends her head, draping the towel over it, and grasping ahold of Alex’s hands.  
  
“Here. Just follow my hands.”  
  
It’s awkward to fold and move her hands when she’s used to doing it a certain way, without a second pair as her own shadow; it’s weird to lean her head over and have Alex do it with her, to be staring down at Alex’s shoulders and chest, her torso disappearing into the water.   
  
“Good job,” Satsuki says; she can’t see it but it should be close enough, balanced on her head.   
  
“You did the work,” says Alex. "I couldn’t do that on my own.”  
  
Satsuki kisses her, leaning forward and careful not to upset the balance of the towel on her head. Alex’s mouth is soft, a little bit dry from the steam. They probably shouldn’t stay in here too long, but it feels so damn good that maybe they can stretch it just a little. Satsuki presse her body against Alex’s, and Alex laughs.   
  
“Whoa, there. We’re going to have to get out like this.”  
  
“I know,” Satsuki says. “But just for a little?”  
  
Alex hums; her hands are still at the sides of Satsuki’s head and her fingers tangle in Satsuki’s hair, not pulling it out from the messy bun but twining in between the strands, her thumbs brushing the tops of Satsuki’s ears. Alex’s eyes are soft, their blue-green reflecting the water of the hot spring. Satsuki wants to kiss her eyelashes for some reason, but she doesn’t want to tilt her head too much, so that can wait until they’re back in the room, when they’re not so sleepy from the heat and when time and space spread out a little bit for them.


	68. murakagahimu, lost in the airport

Tatsuya’s gotten them lost again, and Taiga can’t really blame him for reading the airport map wrong. He wouldn’t have read it right, either; he didn’t, but that’s because he’s running on so little sleep. A game that goes into double overtime right before the all star break and the flight to connect to Tatsuya’s into Miami that had gone from a comfortable window of time to make-or-break, his cab driver hurtling through traffic to get him there just in time and make everyone else in first class glare at him.   
  
Tatsuya, at least, hadn’t brought anything other than a carry-on; he always travels lightly and despite traveling so much from a young age Taiga’s never figured out how he does it. Maybe it’s because he’s always over-prepared, but they’re still making their way to the luggage carousel half an hour after it’s been announced and Taiga’s already thinking about the worst. Someone else having snatched up his luggage, the airport seizing it, getting stopped by another mob of fans staking out the airport for arriving basketball stars.   
  
Tatsuya shifts next to him, where Taiga’s leaning against his shoulder, and Taiga looks up. Coming toward them is an extremely put-out Atsushi, dragging Taiga’s suitcase behind him, cear from the blue stripes and the pink yarn tied to the handle.   
  
“Where were you?”  
  
“We got a bit lost,” says Tatsuya. “And Taiga’s pretty tired.”  
  
Atsushi huffs. “Sleep at the hotel.”  
  
Taiga glares at him.   
  
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” says Atsushi, handing over the suitcase handle.  
  
“I could have gotten it myself,” says Taiga.  
  
“Yeah, if you were here fifteen minutes ago.”  
  
Taiga leans closer to Tatsuya; Tatsuya ruffles his hair but then smiles at Atsushi. “Did you get a car?”  
  
“Yeah. Let’s go.”  
  
They’re halfway across the airport when Atsushi actually hugs them both, a little bit awkwardly and with what is definitely not an accidental reach for Taiga’s ass, but he’s been off in fucking Arizona for the past month.   
  
“I missed you, too,” Taiga says.   
  
Atsushi huffs again, but gentler this time; he wrestles the handle of Taiga’s suitcase out of his hand again. He’s not much of a gentleman, but Taiga appreciates it all the same, Atsushi’s way of doing things that might be a little difficult but still have their—he’d hesitate to say charms, but yeah. It’s cute, anyway; when he says that in the car Atsushi gives him a look that says go the fuck to sleep, so Taiga does.


	69. kagahimualex, catboys au

The chains around their necks have been looking a little bit rusty, and it hadn’t taken Alex too long to find a set of collars with room to attach something like their rings, said to be soft around the neck from the reviews. Bringing up the idea hadn’t even given Tatsuya or Taiga very much pause, and when the collars arrive it’s not that long before they’re undoing their necklaces and fixing the rings onto the collars. Alex fastens Tatsuya’s on his neck first, buckling the leather a little loosely around his throat.   
  
“Does it feel okay?”  
  
Tatsuya nods, fingering it, watching Taiga look at him, Taiga’s tail flicking back and forth with interest. It hadn’t been that long ago when Alex wouldn’t have been able to bring up putting a collar on Tatsuya at all—not like she would have meant it like that at the time—though, she supposes, this is a little bit different. A union of the bond he has with Taiga and the bond the two of them have with her, that they used to and that they do now.   
  
“You can tighten it a little,” Tatsuya says, lifting his hair (it’s getting just a bit long) off the nape of his neck.   
  
Alex scratches right behind his ears for a second before complying; she can feel him still purring a little bit under her fingers. Tatsuya’s still holding his tail, with his other hand, keeping it from moving (he hates when his body gives him away, but it’s okay to be obvious sometimes). Alex ruffles his hair and kisses his cheek; it looks cute on him like this.   
  
Tatsuya does Taiga’s, deft fingers working quickly, the ring resting against Taiga’s throat, just right. Taiga flicks his ears forward; Alex smiles at the two of them. She’d left a toy out on the coffee table; Taiga had seemed to be getting a little antsy but he’s settled down, looking at the collar around Tatsuya’s neck again. There’s room on the couch for all of them, and even though the sun is far beyond it by now it’s still a nice place to fall asleep.  
  
Tatsuya curls up, making his body smaller, wedging himself halfway into the couch cushions (how that’s comfortable for him Alex has no clue). She moves in facing him, entwining her fingers in his and kissing the side of his ear. She can feel both of them purring against her, the warm fuzzy rhythm like radio static from far away, lulling her down into a dream.


	70. muranijihimu, catboys au

Tatsuya’s lost in the kitchen section of the electronics store again, of course. He’d left Atsushi with Shuuzou, and told him to to play with the wires, which of course means Atsushi’s probably more inclined to do that now. Still, the salespeople are giving Atsushi looks for shedding everywhere and it’s not their fault that cat hair’s so visible on their carpets but still. It’s not Atsushi’s fault, either.   
  
Atsushi flattens his ears; he can tell they’re looking at him and of course it bugs him. Shuuzou squeezes his hand. They still need to go to the grocery store and they’ll end up getting there just at the wrong time, right after school lets out and opportunistic parents will be dragging their kids through the aisles and some little brat is going to end up pulling on Atsushi’s tail. At least it’s calm in here for now, but they don’t need any more kitchen gadgets and Tatsuya’s just wasting time. They have the new cables, which Atsushi is not going to chew on (he’s been better, but still, wires); Shuuzou had snagged a bargain bin DVD that doesn’t look terrible; they should go. Atsushi fusses with the label on his bottle of lactose-free milk; he looks like he’s ready to start whining but really would rather get back to the car.  
  
“Okay. We’ll get Tatsuya,” says Shuuzou.   
  
Atsushi flicks his tail.  
  
Tatsuya’s staring at thousand-dollar microwaves, of course; all it takes is a nudge to his shoulder and clarification that they’re kind of ready to go for Tatsuya to get the hint.   
  
“We can go out to the car and start the air conditioner,” says Tatsuya. “If that’s okay.”  
  
“Sure,” says Shuuzou.   
  
The line’s not too long, but Atsushi looks a little more perked up than he had in the store, especially since Tatsuya’s let him take shotgun. There are worse things than sitting behind Tatsuya on the very short ride to the grocery store, especially when they’re arguing over what they need (not a whole jar of pickles, Tatsuya, or half the candy section, Atsushi) and what’s on the list (which is just milk, sugar, butter, and stuff for a salad) and what they’re going to have for dinner. The parking lot’s packed and Tatsuya has to drive for a bit and snake some old guy in a minivan out for a stall, but Shuuzou’s feeling pretty good about it.


	71. haikaganijihimu, catboys au

Taking Taiga to a cat cafe to socialize with other cats was, Tatsuya thinks, a good idea. He and Shuu went into this with no intention of bringing someone else home (and holy hell, that’s a commitment, even for fostering) but this is the third time they’ve had the same waiter, a surly-looking but very prompt cat called Shougo who Taiga’s coaxed into eating with them. He keeps looking at Taiga, like he’s interested, but then back to Tatsuya and Shuu.   
  
There aren’t too many cats who come as patrons, but there are some; Taiga’s the only one here who’d shown up with anyone else, though; Tatsuya wonders how the three of them look to Shougo. He looks down into his coffee; it’s stronger than usual today. There’s what looks like a cat hair floating in it; it always happens when Taiga volunteers to make the coffee, but this is light grey, probably one of Shougo’s. Tatsuya fishes it out and wipes it on his napkin; Shougo tenses.  
  
“Shit. Did I—?”  
  
“You’re good,” says Tatsuya. “These things happen.”  
  
He smiles at Shougo; Shougo looks a little bit caught off-guard. He wrinkles his nose; it’s very cute, in a way that Tatsuya doesn’t expect. Shuu's looking at him too, the same feeling etched on his face; Taiga’s smiling the way he does when everything seems to feel right. Shougo looks back at Shuu, and then looks almost apprehensive.   
  
“Hey,” says Shuu. “Would it be ok if I petted you?”  
  
Shougo looks like he wants to flatten himself against the wall behind him; Tatsuya takes a sip of his coffee. And then Shougo nods, a jerk of his head; Shuu reaches out slowly. Like how he hadn’t needed to but still did with Taiga, trying to earn a little bit more trust.   
  
“I guess,” says Shougo, and ducks his head.   
  
Shuu ruffles hi hair, stroking his head and scratching behind his ears; Shougo leans into the touch like he he’s been craving it, like he’s wanted it so bad. Tatsuya feels Taiga purring beside him, squeezes his hand under the table. Maybe they hadn’t come here looking for anyone to bring home, even temporarily, but Tatsuya’s got a feeling it just might work with Shougo. He’s cute; he’s willing to open up with the right care; he makes some damn good coffee.  
  
After a few moments, Shougo pulls away and Shuu lowers his hand. Shougo’s face is a little flushed, but it’s undeniably pleased.


	72. liuhimu, catboys au

“It’s stupid,” says Tatsuya, but his eyes are closed and he’s trying to bury his face in Wei’s leg. “I’m not going to chase it.”  
  
“It’s cute when you do that shit,” says Wei. “Nothing wrong with it. Keeps your reflexes sharp.”  
  
“I feel stupid, though,” says Tatsuya.   
  
Wei flicks the laser pointer on and off; Tatsuya’s forever fighting his impulses, to play with a dangling string or to chase a laser on a wall, his eyes fixating on a bug in the air or skittering across the floor. He holds his tail to keep it from swishing and twitching; he hates when his ears give him away; he doesn’t like showing more of himself than is necessary. And Wei’s told him multiple times, perhaps not in those exact words, that it’s okay to show more of himself here, with Wei.   
  
He’s letting Wei stroke his back right now, snuggling closer (to Wei and also to the early evening sunbeams creeping closer to the back of the couch), much more openly affectionate than he’d been to start with.   
  
“It’s fun for me, too,” says Wei.  
  
“To make fun of me?”  
  
“No. Just to watch you go.”  
  
Tatsuya sighs, and Wei has a feeling he’s not going to win on this one tonight. He’d already won on their takeout, pad thai that’s still lying on the table, the prawns Tatsuya had let Wei feed him, picking them out of the noodles with his chopsticks. There’s still some noodles and bits of peanut and vegetables left; Wei’s still a little hungry but he could go for dessert. Ice cream might be good; he thinks about Tatsuya licking at a cone, his tongue between his lips, his mouth stained sticky. Or maybe there’s enough time to bake something together, or for Tatsuya to take over and bake a cake for both of them, warm chocolate melting on his tongue and rich frosting that makes Wei’s teeth hurt. He pockets the laser pointer.  
  
“Dessert?”  
  
Tatsuya doesn’t answer; his breathing’s evened out. He’s asleep again; were Wei to say his name or shake his shoulder he'd wake up immediately, blink slowly at Wei, and move his ears just so before he even realizes it. God, he’s cute; Wei’s so fucked. But it could be worse than this, an adorable cat who won’t play with a laser and he happens to be kind of in love with, asleep with his head in Wei’s lap. Yeah, it could be a hell of a lot worse.


	73. aokisekagahimu, catboys au

Ryouta acts a little more like a dog than a cat, Daiki thinks sometimes. Like how he loves to go out for walks, preening at the end of his leash, how he shows up—not at the door with a leash in his mouth, wagging his tail, granted—plopping down on his pillow and holding out the leash for Daiki to clip onto his collar. Or, sometimes he’ll ask Taiga, but that's rare; it’s one of the things that mostly belongs to Ryouta and Daiki, between the two of them even when the four of them share everything.   
  
Tatsuya likes going out, too, but he’s not prone to putting himself on the same sort of display; he’ll accept the compliments people always seem to give Daiki and Taiga, meant for him (about him at least), that he’s such a pretty kitty—words that Daiki thinks only they should be able to speak to him, and not like they have anything to do with that. Ryouta, too. Because, yeah, they’re fucking gorgeous, beautiful when they’re together, beautiful alone, but just saying something like that, on the surface, it’s hard to explain why it annoys Daiki so much. He doesn’t really want to think about it, at least not right now.   
  
“We could all go for a walk?” Ryouta says.  
  
They could; that would be nice, Taiga steering clear of passing dogs even when the rest of them stop to pet them, Ryouta pulling on his leash as if to remind both him and Daiki that it’s there, Ryouta letting Taiga or Tatsuya hold his leash for a bit, Tatsuya trying not to look like he wants to chase the butterflies hanging around in the neighbors’ hedges. But Tatsuya and Taiga are probably asleep right now, and maybe it’s better if it’s just the two of them out on a walk, tugging back and forth at the leash and stopping at the random corners that make Taiga get impatient.   
  
“Let’s just go,” Daiki says with a shrug.   
  
Ryouta matches his smile, handing over the leash, and Daiki lies back on the pillow. He only gets up when Ryouta starts tugging at it, clamoring to his feet and thinking about how they could just as easily join Tatsuya and Taiga in bed. But it’s still a nice day for a walk, even if he’s basically letting Ryouta walk all over him the whole way. But it’s Ryouta, so it’s not like he wouldn’t.


	74. midokagahimu, catboys au

A cat working at the pet store isn’t that odd, but Shintarou still gets asked from time to time if he’s available. It’s annoying; he’s not here to deal with people, only to work the register and check the inventory; he doesn’t get paid to deal with questions he tells himself probably weren’t meant to offend but still do, but at least he does get paid. His shift is over early today; the store’s open into the evening but Shintarou’s out at four, getting picked up by Tatsuya on his way home. Or at least that’s the plan; Shintarou's half sure he’ll get a text that Tatsuya can’t make it. He’s being jumpy, insecure; he knows. But still.  
  
It’s a few minutes after four when Shintarou’s handed over the register to the woman who has the next shift, grabbed his things, and checked his phone (no new notifications). He peers outside, and there’s no Tatsuya; he looks down at his phone again and then he sees Tatsuya’s white Mazda pulling up to the curb.   
  
“Sorry,” says Tatsuya, when Shintarou opens the passenger side door. “I got caught in traffic; I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”  
  
“I just got out,” says Shintarou; he feels himself relaxing.  
  
Tatsuya reaches over to pat his head, and Shintarou sighs, closing his eyes and relaxing. He begins to purr, almost instantly; he’s been with Tatsuya and Taiga for nearly a year now and it still makes him embarrassed how easily his body asserts itself, that it makes it known he wants them here. Tatsuya leans over to kiss Shintarou’s mouth before he puts the car back into drive. The radio is on low, good for Shintarou's sensitive ears; he dozes off before they arrive.   
  
Taiga’s already there when they get back, making dinner in the kitchen; he still has time to scratch behind Shintarou’s ears and ask him about his day while Tatsuya takes over for a bit at the stove. The kitchen is warm, like the afternoon sunbeams Shintarou enjoys on his day off; he nods off after dinner again on the couch, between Tatsuya and Taiga, both of them stroking his back and lulling him off into a dream. The murmur of their voices, discussing sports scores and politics, filters through to Shintarou’s subconscious, as if through a cheesecloth, muted but distinctly there in the background, anchoring him to the two of them, even when he’s not fully aware.


	75. liuhimu, baseball au

“You’re a decent hitter. For a pitcher,” Liu allows, leaning over the dugout railing.   
  
Himuro raises an eyebrow. If this is Liu’s attempt at teasing, it’s—okay, he supposes, better than picking on his pitching, which does need some work, the fastball he can’t quite inch up above ninety still, the knuckleball that flattens out too quickly sometimes. But he leads the team in average; he’s no power hitter but he can execute a bunt, lay down a line drive double in the gap. Maybe he’s only first in average because Atsushi doesn’t try that hard, but someone has to score the runs. You can’t win a game with a score of 0-0, after all.   
  
“Is that a challenge?”  
  
“Maybe,” says Liu, taking off his cap and running a hand through his sweaty hair.   
  
Fukui walks; Himuro strides out to the on-deck circle to take some practice cuts. It’s an exhibition game; they’re using metal bats, a challenge Coach has made to the pitchers—don’t give up any long fly balls. Himuro hadn’t in his two innings of work; the knuckleball isn’t particularly prone to that when it’s working, and today it is well enough. The next batter pops up; it’s Himuro’s turn. He looks back to Liu in the dugout; he’s leaning forward and smirking. So it is a challenge.  
  
It’s not like Himuro can’t hit home runs, but it’s not like he’s going to fuck up his stance swinging for the fences, either.   
  
The first pitch comes in fast, higher than he likes and high enough (or badly-framed enough) that the umpire calls ball one. Himuro prefers facing off against righty pitchers; whether because it’s something in his lefty batting stance or the fact that he’s a righty pitcher himself he doesn’t know, and the why of it doesn’t really matter. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try harder to hit lefties, and, well, the second pitch comes in slow, a little movement just toward the outside corner, right where Himuro likes it. He’s got to swing a little harder to make it carry, but, well.  
  
It lands on the other side of the fence; Fukui and Atsushi high-five Himuro at the plate and the smirk is gone, replaced with an unsurprised smile. Liu grabs Himuro’s ass just as Himuro’s about to grab his, and Himuro lets his hand graze the small of Liu’s back instead, right under his jersey number.  
  
“Like I said,” Liu says. “You’re decent for a pitcher.”


	76. aomido, 456 au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tied into [this au](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/baseball_aomido) but not long enough for its own fic

“Babe,” says Aomine. “I know you got this.”  
  
“Then why are you here?” says Midorima.   
  
There’s one out and a runner at first, the perfect situation to induce a ground ball and be done with it. Midorima doesn’t trust his fielders as much as he trusts himself (especially when it’s not Aomine out there at third), but still. A routine play, one that they’ve made a million times. They can handle it; Midorima doesn’t need to waste time trying to pick off the runner. Unless he’s going to try and steal on Aomine's rifle of an arm, which would be stupid—but that doesn’t mean he won’t do it. Midorima sighs.  
  
“Just strike him out, Ace.”  
  
“You’re the power pitcher.”  
  
“Eh, true, but it’s not like you can’t,” says Aomine, that cheeky grin of his splitting his face. “You got this."  
  
The umpire’s starting to walk out; Aomine squeezes Midorima’s ass (definitely not the normal buddy-buddy ass slap that the other catchers give him, and probably not appropriate for the middle of the game, but whatever). Midorima’s cheeks are flaming with more than the usual sunburn. He waits for Aomine to pull on his mask and crouch behind the plate; he checks the runner and looks in for the sign. Changeup, okay. He fires from the stretch; the batter’s looking for a fastball and seizes up; Aomine frames the pitch perfectly. Strike one.  
  
Midorima checks the runner again; he’s not going. Aomine calls for the curve and Midorima shakes his head. Another changeup, and he nods, fires. The batter makes contact, but his swing is early and pulls the ball foul. Two strikes, the runner taking a bigger lead but not worth throwing over. Midorima could get him like that, but he knows exactly what Aomine wants now. He’s ready for the fastball before Aomine even signs it.  
  
The batter swings over it; Midorima doesn’t have to look to know the runner’s going. Aomine’s throw is sharp, sizzling, a perfect strike from nearly twice the length of a pitch, straight into Sakurai’s glove where he smacks the tag on the runner’s leg with plenty of time left. Three out.   
  
“Nice throw,” Midorima says, catching up with Aomine on their way back to the dugout.   
  
Aomine beams (are compliments from him that rare?) before launching into a flowery description of Midorima’s pitching that leaves him blushing furiously and almost wishing the game was over sooner.


	77. garciraki, stubborn

“What the hell was the oven up to?”  
  
“450,” says Alex. “That’s what it said.”  
  
“It says 250,” says Masako. “See?”  
  
Alex squints at the paper, holding it up to her face. “I guess it does. Shit.”  
  
Oh. Masako’s stomach drops; she’d known there had to have been some kind of reason. Alex is a good cook, not prone to making mistakes like this, turning the oven on two hundred degrees too hot and leaving a charred mess in the casserole dish, especially because this is her oven and her apartment. She knows how to use it.   
  
“Are your eyes—”  
  
“It’s fine; I knew I needed to update my prescription,” says Alex. “I’ve just been putting it off; shit’s been getting in the way. It’s been headed this way for a while, but it’s not, like, getting to that kind of point, you know?”  
  
(They talk around it, always; maybe it’s less than they used to, but the road to where Alex is comfortable with it, to where Masako’s comfortable with raising the subject to her, is rocky and uneven, subject to sudden pitfalls.)  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Masako. “I didn’t even think about it.”  
  
“It’s okay,” says Alex. “If we soak the dish it should be fine. And I’ll ask for something printed larger if I need it.”  
  
She pushes up her glasses on her nose. “What about your prescription?”  
  
“Ill call the eye doctor. Tonight, if you want me to.”  
  
(Masako doesn’t want to push it, but she doesn’t want anything to happen; she doesn’t want to hover and Alex knows how to get around with her eyesight as it is but still.)  
  
“Hey,” says Alex, her hand cool on Masako’s shoulder. “I know. I’m kind of difficult and stubborn.”  
  
“Not like I’m not,” says Masako, giving her a half smile.  
  
They leave the casserole dish full of warm, soapy water in the sink, the window open to let out what’s left of the smoke, the oven double checked that it’s off, before they retire to the living room. They both kind of smell like burnt vegetables; they both need showers but first it’s nice to just not be freaking out about the smoke alarm, or about each other, to just lie on the couch with their eyes closed for a bit.  
  
“We still need dinner,” Alex mumbles.  
  
“Takeout?” says Masako. “I’ll buy.”  
  
“You don’t have to,” Alex says, kissing Masako’s jaw.  
  
“I know,” says Masako.


	78. garciraki, hockey au

“Why not get your skates sharpened at the rink?” says Masako.  
  
She’s trying not to smile as she says it, sweeping her hair over her shoulder as she takes Alex’s ratty skate bag.   
  
“Too expensive,” says Alex. “And you do a better job.”  
  
Those are both true, of course; the rink isn’t for hockey by default and most of the classes there teach basic moves or figure skating. Those are fine, but the kids they hire for minimum wage after school jobs, the ones who get stuck sharpening the skates, are mostly used to figure skates or the generic rental stuff from behind their counter. Masako’s a hockey player, though; she’s used to sharpening her own skates, the hockey skates young kids and her former teammates bring in, to the perfect point, so that when they step back out on the ice the blades cut through the right way.   
  
Of course, the main reason is that Alex is here to flirt with Masako, not as hopelessly as she’d once thought it had been. Masako knows by now; she flirts back, talks about playing on the national team, dropping her gloves in rec leagues, all of which makes Alex more determined to invite her over to the rink, get her skating (passing a puck back and forth, racing from end to end, trying to deke on each other—so Alex is a forward and Masako’s on D; it’s not like she hadn’t had a scoring touch when she damn well wanted it; Alex has seen quite a few of her highlights).  
  
Alex watches Masako work; she’s wanted to ask for a while if she can sharpen her own. She misses doing it, the feeling of being at the rink and tending to her equipment, not so much a ritual as lacing up her skates before every game had been, left side on top for a home game and right side on top for away, but something familiar and comforting to ease the tension in her back, to get her mind off her own mistakes she’s trying not to dwell on. She watches Masako’s face, the concentration on the routine activity; maybe Masako feels the same.  
  
“All done,” Masako says, putting the skates back in the bag.   
  
“Come with me to the rink some time,” says Alex with a smile. “See how well they work.”  
  
“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Masako says.  
  
“I’m there every day.”  
  
(It’s an offer; perhaps it’s too bold, but—Masako dips her head in assent.)


	79. kagahimu, hockey au

They’re the first ones at the rink and the last ones to leave; that’s how it’s always been on the days they’re not playing on the asphalt in the street, feet sweating in their rollerblades before the sun is even that high above them, knocking each other off the puck or the ball, whatever they’re playing with that day. But today is a rink day, indoor surface under the wheels of their skates; there’s an ice rink not too far from here and while that’s hockey as much as this, this is their hockey, the hockey they grew up on, how they learned to pass and check and shoot and block.   
  
There are advantages to staying so late, besides the extra time where they can fool around, nudging each other toward the boards and slapping each other’s sticks while the puck rolls away, Taiga picking Tatsuya up in celebration when he scores a goal and kissing him awkwardly with their helmets. And then there’s now, when they’re in the locker room, the sweat that’s drying on their skin from themselves and each other and the musty air. It's pretty gross, but they’re used to it, so it’s not so bad—well, it is. But still.   
  
Tatsuya removes his gear as he always does; helmet, shoulders, right side pads, left side pads, skates; he puts it back in his bag in that order and then goes to deal with his skates. Taiga’s having difficulty with the double knot in his skates; he ends up kicking one of his elbow pads over to Tatsuya, who picks it up. It’s getting a little worn; both of them are tough on equipment (Tatsuya more than Taiga; he’ll admit it), from playing hard and playing all the goddamn time.   
  
“We should order new ones,” Tatsuya says, thinking back to the ones he’d stuffed in his own bag.  
  
“Huh?” says Taiga, having finally loosened the knot in his laces.  
  
“Elbow pads,” says Tatsuya, tossing Taiga’s back to him.  
  
Taiga looks it over. “Yeah. Just fucking bought this one, though.”  
  
Tatsuya hums, stripping off his undershirt; the bruise on his side from that blocked shot last week is finally fading, and Taiga’s noticed that, too. He looks Tatsuya up and down, as if noticing the way he looks shirtless for the first time.  
  
“I know you don’t need me to tell you this, but you’re gorgeous,” Taiga says.  
  
“Thank you,” says Tatsuya, quiet; the sincerity in Taiga’s voice, even if it’s about something like this is—well.   
  
(They do have the locker room to themselves, after all.)


	80. haikaga, merfolk au

Shougo’s halfway out when the motor dies. Fucking figures, chasing a ship that’s too fast for him to catch up with, pushing the motor until it breaks, set adrift with enough water for a day or so. Maybe more if he keeps under the paltry shelter (this is little more than a glorified rowboat, honestly) and if the sun doesn’t get too bright or too hot. He can try getting back to shore, but where will that lead him? He’s got a set of oars, but only so much energy. What a fucking way to die.  
  
He hears a splash next to him and swiftly turns his head, probably just a fish, although, if he eats, maybe he’ll last longer? Shougo squints into the water, trying to see through the dark, but there’s very little, all around him. Just emptiness, the dizzying mass of stars above in the sky, the rocking waves. And then, slowly, a head pops out. A merman, by the looks of things, red hair and suspicious eyes; Shougo wonders if they really do eat people, if he’s not going to get a chance to row himself back.   
  
“Suicide mission?” says the merman. “Thought your boat was just passing through, but you cut the motor.”  
  
“It died,” says Shougo. “Didn’t you hear me yelling at it to turn the fuck back on?”  
  
The merman shakes his head, but smiles; his teeth glint in the low light. “Must have been amusing.”  
  
“Maybe to you, since you’re not going to fucking die out here.”  
  
“We’re not that far from shore.”  
  
“Far enough,” says Shougo, gazing out at the flat expanse before him, water on every horizon.   
  
He pulls out his compass to stare at it again; he hasn’t changed direction much (the position of the stars in the sky only confirms that). The shore is still to the west; the ship is probably east but unreachable at this point. Unless the merman’s planning to like, assimilate him and give him a fish tail, or tow him back (his mother’s words to never trust a merperson, never owe them a favor, echo in Shougo’s mind; she’d learned that in a bad way though she’s never let him pry too much into the details—but owing a merman and being alive is better than being dead in the ocean with no debt in Shougo’s opinion) then Shougo doesn’t have much on his side.   
  
The merman is still studying him, trying to make up his mind or something. He’s actually pretty cute, strong shoulders and sharp eyes, weird eyebrows but they add to his charm a little bit. Shougo’s never really interacted with any merfolk, despite being a sailor all his life; he wonders if maybe he should have before. If they could have met under better circumstances—and what? Gone out for coffee? What kind of person does Shougo think he is?   
  
“You want to tow me back?” says Shougo. “I’m a sailor; you’ll catch me if I weasel out of repaying you.”  
  
“Not really,” says the merman. “But I don’t want your life on my hands.”  
  
“You’re a decent guy,” says Shougo. “Damn.”  
  
“What did you expect, that I’d eat you?” says the merman.  
  
“As if," says Shougo.


	81. nijihimu, usc au

They could fly up to summer training camp in the Bay Area; the school had offered to pay for any form of transportation. Still, it’s easier for Shuu to not have to deal with the whole plane thing, so they buy tickets on Amtrak and set out on the scenic route early in the morning, basketball bags jammed on the overhead racks and backpacks up against the seats in front of them. Shuu falls asleep before they’re out of the city, his head resting on Tatsuya’s hoodie, folded up into a makeshift pillow against the window.   
  
Tatsuya sips his train station coffee; it’s pretty shitty but he’s still awake. IT’s nice to do this every once in a while; he’s not so fond of trains but he didn’t grow up relying on them as the main form of transportation the way Shuu had. He’s a car guy, even in the traffic, even when it’s not practical to drive out and park it at the hotel the whole time and pay for all that gas, but it’s also nice not to have to think about driving all day. To have Shuu with him, not all tense and anxious the way he gets on planes.   
  
About an hour later, the coffee’s stopped working on him and Tatsuya falls asleep, his head on Shuu’s shoulder, as the sun shines through the window. When he wakes up, Shuu’s trying to extract himself from the seat; he winces when he sees Tatsuya yawn and stretch.  
  
“Sorry."  
  
“It’s okay,” Tatsuya says.  
  
“Want anything to eat?”  
  
Train food sounds pretty gross, but Tatsuya’s actually hungry, the bran muffin he’d split with Shuu back at the station a distant memory by now. He can’t find a comfortable sleeping position without Shuu to lean on, so he flips through text messages while he waits for Shuu to get back with the food, two cheeseburgers that are a little less dubious looking than Tatsuya had been expecting.  
  
“Thanks, Shuu.”  
  
“Anytime,” says Shuu.   
  
The burger is adequate; when Tatsuya’s done he rests his hand on Shuu’s thigh, fingers curling around Shuu’s knee. The train is pretty quiet; it’s the middle of the week, after all, and they don’t have to speak as quietly as they are in order not to disturb anyone. Still, it feels more natural that way, better. More comfortable, in a way that goes with mediocre food and the fuzziness of being half awake and leaning on each other, waiting to wake up in San Francisco.


	82. nijihaikaga, graffiti

Taiga adjusts the beam to low and carefully shines it; a rat skitters across the way and out of sight but otherwise nothing’s moving. He cautiously steps forward; God he hates shit like this. Spooky nighttime stuff, tests of courage; all of that isn’t for him. Shuuzou squeezes his hand.  
  
“I got you.”  
  
“Stop being such wusses,” says Shougo, and Taiga can hear him roll his eyes. “It’s just a bridge and if you’re scared you don’t have to go under it.”   
  
“You wanted to show us, though,” says Taiga, talking if not just to remind them all but to drown out the sound of the river rushing just a few feet away from them.   
  
“So shine the beam up,” says Shougo.  
  
Taiga acquiesces, and, whoa.  
  
He’s seen graffiti before, obviously; he’d seen it on the street courts of LA, scrubbed from walls, tags and large spectacles, words and pictures of luminaries or crude humor or caricatures, aliens and globes and baseball gloves, the shutters on the fronts of stores spray-painted with blues and reds in bold letters. This, though, is something else entirely. It’s graffiti on top of graffiti on top of graffiti, tucked away like a little urban legend, the things that isn’t supposed to happen here, but is so far away and unseen that it’s almost like it doesn’t exist, so it’s allowed to exist. Tags and pictures overlaid on top of one another, the brick repainted but chipped away by some enterprising folks, like cracks and tarnishes over the bright colors.   
  
“Fuck,” says Shuuzou.   
  
“Nice, isn’t it?” says Shougo, even his voice going quiet for a bit.   
  
They look around for a little while longer before they go, Shougo leading the way up the steep riverbank toward the road.   
  
“Thanks for showing us,” says Taiga.  
  
Shougo shrugs, and Shuuzou leans over to ruffle his hair (and Shougo lets him). They still have time, a decent distance between the bridge and their apartment, and Taiga’s pretty hungry (so he always is).  
  
“Pizza?" says Shuuzou.  
  
“Yeah,” says Taiga, and Shougo nods.  
  
They stick the flashlight on the table in the pizza parlor, Shuuzou sitting across from Taiga and Shougo, crammed in to one side with Shougo’s arm draped over Taiga (just to make room, he’d said, but who the fuck’s he fooling). Taiga looks at the two of them, letting the grease drip down his slice of pizza along the crease where he’d folded it in half, and he’s so glad they’re there with him.


	83. murakagahimu, sick

  
Taiga wraps the blanket tighter around him, squeezing his swollen eyes shut. There are many worse things than coming down with a cold in the summer, but he can’t really think of any right now. At least he’s not alone with snow on the ground outside, but the summer is waning and he’s not going to have nearly as much time with Tatsuya and Atsushi all too soon, and right now he’s spending it filling the garbage with snotty tissues and pushing away Tatsuya because he’s probably contagious.   
  
“I thought idiots don’t catch cold,” says Atsushi.  
  
“Hush,” says Tatsuya, reproving, something Taiga can’t even enjoy squabbling with Atsushi about he’s so damn sick.   
  
His throat is sore and he’s cold and why the fuck is Atsushi sitting down next to him?  
  
“You’ll catch it,” Taiga says, and Atsushi sighs.   
  
“I probably already have. You look kind of pathetic like this, huh?”  
  
Taiga makes a sound of disagreement, even though he feels pretty fucking pathetic; Atsushi draws him closer (his body’s so nice and warm; Taiga’s been wishing the blanket was thicker but Atsushi’s the perfect remedy to that).  
  
“You’re sweating already,” says Atsushi.   
  
He dabs a cool cloth against Taiga’s forehead; Taiga sighs and sniffles, leaning into the warmth radiating off his knuckles. Taiga feels another set of fingers, Tatsuya’s probably, swipe across his forehead afterward; they’re cooler so they’re definitely his.   
  
“Open your mouth,” Tatsuya says, and Taiga obeys.  
  
He tries to hold the thermometer under his tongue until finally Tatsuya pulls it out; Taiga opens his eyes to look at Tatsuya’s face, his brow furrowed at the digital display.  
  
“You’re down to 100.2; that’s half a degree lower. Are you hungry?”  
  
“No,” Taiga sighs, leaning into Atsushi’s chest, warm and strong and firm.   
  
“Do you want to go to bed?”  
  
“Couch is fine; you sleep,” says Taiga.   
  
Tatsuya’s smile as he crouches next to Taiga is so fond that Taiga feels the warmth spreading through him the same as if Atsushi had just sprouted two extra arms to hold him with.   
  
“We’re okay for now.”  
  
“Speak for yourself,” says Atsushi, but he makes no move to get up, pulling Taiga a little bit closer onto his lap instead.  
  
Taiga reaches for Tatsuya’s hand but misses, almost falls off the couch trying to twist himself. There's room next to him for Tatsuya to sit, though, and he finally does, fingers combing through Taiga’s hair, massaging his scalp until he drifts off into a half-sleep.


	84. murahimu, plant!tatsuya

The terrarium is moist, the dirt sinking a little under Atsushi’s feet near the entrance. His hair is sticking to the back of his neck by the time he reaches Tatsuya, at the farthest end. He unfurls his leaves, unable to get at the moisture in the air, only that which his roots suck out of the soil, crumbling it to dryness. He’s always so thirsty; he never complains of it but Atsushi’s read all about his species in the plant books.   
  
“Good morning,” Tatsuya says.  
  
His voice is calm, warm; it’s always like that when he has all his leaves, before they fall away and reveal the scarred bark over what should be his eye, the knots on his branches he likes to keep hidden, the thorns in his mouth that Atsushi already feels when he kisses him. Trees can’t move out of the way but they can push, if their branches are mobile enough; they can hurt. Maybe it had been foolish to kiss one as volatile as Tatsuya in the first place, but if it had worked out then it hadn’t been foolish at all.   
  
Atsushi pours water in circles with the hose, watches as Tatsuya’s trunk relaxes under the feeling. Pleasure, like the same kind Atsushi gets from eating good-quality chocolate, from finding just the right position to take a nap in. It’s not as obvious a gesture as it could be, as some of the other plants give, but it’s recognizable when Atsushi’s as familiar with Tatsuya as he’s become.  
  
“Thank you, Atsushi.”  
  
It’s his signal to stop, to shut off the hose. Atsushi wipes the sweat from his face and steps closer, careful not to tread on Tatsuya’s roots. He places a kiss on Tatsuya’s forehead, and he doesn’t say anything foolish, the things like those characters in a shitty manga might say like _I wish you were human_. What kind of affectionate thing is that to say? That you wish the one you love is not them at all? Sure, it would be more convenient if they could do the same things, move the same way, but thinking about that kind of thing just makes Atsushi angry.   
  
“Are you cross with me?”  
  
“No,” says Atsushi.   
  
“Come kiss me again?”  
  
(He tries not to think about how badly Tatsuya disguises his need for affection, how he should just ask for it like he wants it, the way he really does want it, all of it. It doesn’t work until his mouth is pressed to Tatsuya’s and his tongue tastes the thorns.)


	85. murahimu, dragon!tatsuya

Tatsuya’s hoard is a little bit underwhelming at first glance, but that’s Tatsuya for you. He keeps the glittering gold and jewels underneath what’s tarnished and less precious, less impressive; some of it’s tucked away where he can only access it in human form, which Atsushi supposes keeps him from losing it to other dragons who try and sweep in. Still, though, under the surface there’s more than Tatsuya could ever use or need, an excess of gold cups, coins that are now worth far more than the value denominated, gaudy necklaces he’d never wear. Atsushi supposes he’s not one to talk about excess, especially given what Tatsuya brings him on his quests, whole cows and pigs to roast, cartons of snacks made out of processed sugar, cases of sweet milky coffee. Atsushi's free to go when he’s gone, but why should he when Tatsuya keeps him satisfied?  
  
It’s much better than being back in the palace, forced into performing royal duties when he’s last in line for the throne, acting the dutiful son even when he doesn’t want to, complaining of his boredom and being reprimanded. Tatsuya considers his dilemmas, gives him books to read and his own company, attention and affection. He doesn’t give himself, but Atsushi’s not sure yet whether he wants that or not, so for now he appreciates what Tatsuya withholds, the pace at which he’s moving.   
  
He’s a reptile so of course his skin is cold, even when he’s in the guise of a human, the burned-out side of his face covered by hair arranged just so, the chain around his neck with a ring worth less than the most tarnished piece of silver at the top of his heap that he grabs from a different hiding spot every time (there is meaning behind that, some kind of sentimentality Atsushi’s vaguely curious about but not privy to).  
  
His skin is cold but his heart moves with the fire he breathes, the forests and cities he’s razed when raiding, the rain of weapons down on him as he makes his escape each time. There aren’t too many dragons left out here; either they’ve slithered into hiding or taken too many risks. Tatsuya seems to do the latter, but luck is on his side for now, if there’s such a thing as luck. And Atsushi supposes that transitively luck is on his side as well, if he can siphon some off or if his fortunes go the way of Tatsuya’s.


	86. murahimu, fried egg

“Atsushi, are you paying attention?”  
  
He’s not really, and Tatsuya’s going to have to show him all over again, crack another egg in the pan and fry it, split it between the two of them as the yolk spills out on the plate and sticks to it before they can wash it, because they’re distracted all over again with each other (or, really, Tatsuya’s letting Atsushi distract him with a kiss here, a question that’s barely tangential—or on another plane entirely—there, until the yolk’s dry and the pan’s cold and Atsushi asks for another tutorial).  
  
He’s watching Tatsuya, not the pan; Tatsuya turns around to look at him, slumped over the table (isn’t it hard on his back?) with his eyebrows raised, his hair falling to brush the placemat.   
  
“You crack the egg, raise it and drop the yolk…get any eggshells out of the pan.”  
  
Atsushi nods, but his eyes are tracing up the line of Tatsuya’s torso, his arm still raised in the air. The egg sizzles on the stove; Tatsuya stares right back at Atsushi, the eyes pretending to be so lazy, the way he raises his head so slowly, like a small child inching toward the back door, acting like he won’t be noticed.   
  
Tatsuya looks back at the stove, turning up the burner; he can feel Atsushi’s eyes right on his ass, the small of his back.   
  
“Come here, or you won’t see.”  
  
Atsushi obliges; sometimes Tatsuya forgets just how big he is (impossible, and yet he folds himself up; he towers over Tatsuya when Tatsuya already feels so damn tall himself all the time, especially here where the average person’s half a foot shorter than him, maybe more). Just half of him is all of Tatsuya, height and width and wingspan; he covers the rest of the stove, crouching down just to see the egg in the pan, to watch as Tatsuya slides the spatula under the egg and flips it over.   
  
“See how it’s a little bit crispy on the bottom? You want that; that’s a good fried egg. Don’t leave it too long on the other side, though.”  
  
Tatsuya’s dishing the egg out onto the plate when Atsushi hugs him from behind. He doesn’t have to say much to get the point across, enough with the eggs; they’ve eaten so many already and there are other things they could be doing with their time.


	87. murahimu, hot springs

The brightest spot in these long Akita winters is the trips to the hot springs, the warm water and steam that let him escape from the realities of the biting air outside, the constant coat of snow on the ground, white to grey with dirt to white again with a fresh coat. The days are short, but it’s hard to tell when you’re inside in the bright lights and clean, finally, from the dirt and grime. That’s how Tatsuya sees it, anyway. Some of his teammates use it as an excuse to goof off; some of them take it way too seriously. Atsushi gets in the baths for a bit but leaves early in search of a nap or some time to himself.   
  
Tatsuya finds him sprawled out in their room, yukata open and a manga magazine folded over his bare chest. As he changes into his own yukata (a feeling that isn’t quite as comfortable and familiar as it should be, another cultural thing he’d lost without having in the first place) he tries to keep quiet, but Atsushi’s closer to the waking world than Tatsuya had though.  
  
“You look good,” he says from the floor as Tatsuya tries to remember how he’s supposed to tie the sash.  
  
After several unsuccessful attempts, Atsushi gets up to help. It takes him all of five seconds to do what had taken Tatsuya five minutes to make no headway, and even though he’s got it done properly now it still feels annoying, that he can’t get this basic thing.  
  
“Stop worrying so much,” says Atsushi. “You’re cute and foreign; you can get away with that stuff.”  
  
“I don’t want to,” says Tatsuya.   
  
Atsushi shrugs. “I would if I were you.”  
  
(Tatsuya could snap, that yeah but Atsushi’s not him, but that would just miss the whole point of it; it would drive them further away from where they need to be all over some dumb shit like usual. It’s rarely Atsushi who instigates; sometimes he provokes but Tatsuya doesn’t have to take the bait every goddamn time like he does.)   
  
“I know,” Tatsuya says, sighing.   
  
“There’s internet tutorials,” says Atsushi. “Find one.”  
  
Yeah, he could; he should. He will when he’s back in his dorm with a lukewarm mug of coffee and his homework’s not doing itself and Atsushi’s asleep in bed behind him, his own homework already done because he gets it all in early somehow, between classes, quickly but still with a decent quality that makes it not look quite so dashed off. But until then he’s got Atsushi to do it, so maybe it’s not such a bad deal.


	88. murahimu, fake married

“We're married," says Atsushi, unfurling his left hand. “But not really.”  
  
The wedding ring winks back up from his ring finger, odd. It’s fake gold but real metal and probably won’t rub off against his hand; the weight of it is solid. Tatsuya had said it was as if it had made things real, lightly but also with a hint of actual meaning. But this is fake; this is just an elaborate ruse, something Tatsuya has decided they ought to do, something he says will get his own parents off his back about coming home. With Tatsuya, it’s always an excuse thinner and flimsier than cellophane, but figuring out what it’s an excuse for, well, that’s the hard part.   
  
“Okay,” says Atsushi’s sister. “Explain this further.”  
  
She looks like she wants to glare at Tatsuya, like this is all his fault, but Atsushi hadn’t had to go through with it. He could have told Tatsuya to find another fake spouse, another thing to keep him in Japan, or to just suck it up and deal with his parents.  
  
“My parents want me to come home,” Tatsuya says. “They'll stop bugging me about it if they think I have someone keeping me here.”  
  
“Where’s home?”  
  
“Los Angeles.”  
  
Atsushi’s sister raises her eyebrows. “You’re an adult; you don’t have to listen to them. Wouldn’t they want to be invited to the wedding?”  
  
“They don't like travel much,” says Tatsuya. “They’ll want to meet him, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”  
  
“This sounds like a terrible plan,” says Atsushi’s sister. “I don’t want to have to meet your parents and pretend to be your in-law.”  
  
“Fair enough,” says Tatsuya, but the edges of his smile are waning a bit.  
  
Atsushi drops his arm around Tatsuya’s shoulders (might as well get something out of this fake relationship, even if the affection comes from somewhere else). Tatsuya rubs his thumb against his own ring and leans in.  
  
“Looks convincing enough,” says Atsushi’s sister. “But you have to be the one to tell Mom and Dad.”  
  
Atsushi shrugs; he’s pretty sure his parents won’t care that much. Probably happy that he has a fake husband to support him for a little while, and they like Tatsuya (but then, his sister had, too, when they’d just been friends and not fake anything). But he keeps his arm around Tatsuya’s shoulders for now, since Tatsuya doesn’t seem too keen on pushing him away.


	89. murahimu, festival fireworks

It’s all Tatsuya’s fault, Atsushi decides. While Atsushi’s the one who had taken him up to stay with his cousins, Tatsuya had been asking five million questions about Japanese festivals and the preparations, and had seemed very eager when his uncle had said he knew the guy who did the fireworks. So of course he’d volunteered them both to set them off, and so instead of enjoying the festival, wandering around in yukata eating cotton candy and watching Tatsuya win him stuffed animals, they’re sitting here with the fireworks and Atsushi’s uncle’s friend is continually reprimanding him and praising Tatsuya for his attentiveness.  
  
Atsushi doesn’t get what’s so fascinating about setting of fireworks; sure it’s a festival but you can do that anywhere (and from the topics of conversation Tatsuya steers clear of and the few hints he’s dropped, and the way he punches, he’s probably been in a position to set off a few himself before). But it’s kind of cute to see the fascinated look on Tatsuya’s face, even though he’d still probably be just as fascinated trying to catch goldfish or something. They don’t need to be here, sweating and going over fire safety. Atsushi sighs again.  
  
“Want to help me with the first one?” Tatsuya says.  
  
He’s holding a firework out. Atsushi’s uncle's friend is looking a little bit doubtful, but, well. Fuck that; Atsushi knows what to do.  
  
The firework shoots into the air and explodes into white sparks, a different view when it’s directly above them than from across the riverbank; now they’ve started there are more to shoot off, red and green and blue and white and yellow in patterns, nothing extravagant but enough to make people point and stare, enough to explode loud in their ears.   
  
They can’t have some hackneyed kiss right under the fireworks, eyes closed and explosions in the sky, even after the people in charge let them go and enjoy the festival; Atsushi’s ears are kind of ringing but he presses a kiss to Tatsuya’s lips, quick and short and open-eyed.  
  
“Thank you for doing this with me, Atsushi,” Tatsuya says.  
  
Atsushi shrugs, and then Tatsuya pulls him in for a proper kiss.   
  
Maybe this hadn’t been the festival he’d thought he was getting when he’d brought Tatsuya here. But it’s still been pretty okay, and it’ll only get a little more like that if Tatsuya keeps on kissing him.


	90. nijihimu, darkroom

The best part of the darkroom is that it’s, well, dark. Dark to develop the photographs properly, dark so you can’t quite see the people you’re with and they can’t quite see you. These particular negatives are, well, not something Tatsuya wants other people seeing, things he and Shuu had taken with the old camera, trying to get the lighting just right, a little bit disconcerted by the way they can’t see the picture after they’ve taken it, having to wind the film forward after the shutter clicks, something they only remember halfway from their childhoods, Shuu’s mother’s old film camera and Tatsuya’s old disposables, bought for him every summer.   
  
There’s Shuu, naked on the sheets, giving the camera the finger after Tatsuya had suggested he pose seductively, the two of them in front of the mirror, a picture Shuu had taken of Tatsuya, face just a little bit flushed from Shuu getting him worked up (and Shuu’s always the one who says Tatsuya makes him undone, but it’s not like it doesn’t swing the other way, too, even if Tatsuya’s worse at admitting it). He can feel it now, Shuu’s hands ghosting over him, Shuu’s mouth on his collarbone (and then the picture of Shuu, too small on the roll of film to see, but a bite mark on his shoulder from Tatsuya’s teeth).   
  
Suddenly, Tatsuya feels a little less like developing the photos and a little more like repeating the whole process. He’d rather look at Shuu in front of him than Shuu on a photo, blown up to three by five.   
  
Shuu, done fussing with the chemicals, seems to have a similar idea; he wraps his arms around Tatsuya’s waist, his gloves pushing against Tatsuya’s apron.   
  
“Hey,” he whispers right into Tatsuya’s ear.  
  
“Hey yourself,” says Tatsuya. “I’ve just been reminiscing a little."  
  
“About last week?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Tatsuya. “Maybe we should do it again, huh? Get some more photos so we know what we want to get prints of. Film’s pretty cheap right now, don’t want to have to keep developing.”  
  
“You’ve got a point,” says Shuu, nuzzling against Tatsuya’s neck. “Though we do have everything all set up here…”  
  
“True, true,” says Tatsuya, sighing and looking around.   
  
His eye’s adjusted to the dark; he can see Shuu’s hands clasped firmly around his waist. He leans back, purposefully moving his ass against Shuu’s groin, and Shuu makes a disgruntled sound.  
  
“Hey, hey.”  
  
“Don’t tell me you didn’t like that.”


	91. nijihimu, magic au

Tatsuya can tell a cursed object when he sees it. His magic sensitivity is overall low; his own magical capabilities are borderline useless. But there’s something about the pink teacup at the front of the glass case that draws his attention. There’s something off about it, some sort of visual cue that even magicians miss (perhaps because they’re so used to sensation through magic it blinds them; Tatsuya wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case—and magicians take so much care to prevent those signs from showing up, but never the visual ones).  
  
“Malevolence?” he says.  
  
The guy behind the counter, very cute with his curled lip and floppy hair, shrugs. “That’s what they say. I don’t know enough magic to try and unravel it, but we’ve already moved the location and I can’t afford to do it again.”  
  
“Makes sense,” says Tatsuya. “Can I see that pink teacup?”  
  
The guy nods, and pulls it out. “I’m Shuuzou by the way. We spoke on the phone.”  
  
Tatsuya shakes his hand; his grip is firm and he seems surprised the way they always do about how soft Tatsuya’s hand is. It just means he takes care of himself; it doesn’t mean he’s not good at what he does.   
  
“Join me for some tea?” Tatsuya says. “I’ll take the pink one.”  
  
It does nothing in Tatsuya's hand, lying dormant; Shuuzou pours them both tea from a pot and they sit down at the table closest to the counter, in case someone comes in to buy a pastry. It’s midmorning and not particularly crowded right now; the teacup sits casually in its saucer. Shuuzou pours some honey into his own brown teacup and takes a sip. Tatsuya touches his cup and tea splashes over the side; it wobbles on the saucer. Interesting.   
  
“Is it just this cup?”  
  
“I think so,” says Tatsuya. “It wouldn’t be simple as getting rid of it. I don’t think it will let you do that. Or physically break it."  
  
It feels heavy when he picks it up, spliing over the sides again; the tea’s not so hot it scalds his hands but it’s uncomfortable; Tatsuya pushes his elbows down on the table and grips the cup tighter. Even he can feel the drag of the spell now that he’s trying to find it, now that its active.   
  
“I’ve definitely had magicians use it before with no problems—”  
  
“Probably designed not to arouse suspicion. I’m not magic enough for the cup to recognize that.”  
  
Shuuzou’s good enough not to ask how come he can tell, just watches and trusts, and oh. Not fair that he’s this cute, not fair that he’s a client; Tatsuya squeezes the cup tighter in his hands, hot tea spilling all over his arms and the table.   
  
“Stand back.”   
  
Shuuzou obeys, and the malevolence begins to sink into Tatsuya’s skin; it’s not subtle at all, telling him it can give him the power he wants, the power he needs, the things he’s heard before and is so tired of, the things he aches for, so obvious to the magic, always.   
  
And then the cup explodes; Tatsuya hisses as a shard digs into the heel of his hand, shallow but still sharp; he ducks his face away but there’s tea in his hair, the rattle of falling shards of glass. The malevolence loses its source, falls away and dissipates into the air. They’re going to need some kind of magical trace-cleaner in here, but Tatsuya can recommend someone who will give a fair price, and after that, well. It should all be gone.   
  
“Are you okay?” says Shuuzou, one hand reaching for Tatsuya’s.   
  
Tatsuya lets him hold it for a little while longer than he would, just because. Just to keep Shuuzou looking at him.


	92. kikasa, baseball au

Kasamatsu knows it’s a dream, but that doesn’t mean he can control what’s happening. The diamond is empty; the umpires are gone; there is something on the mound. A jersey. Kobori’s, he thinks; Kobori was supposed to be pitching today. He turns to look to the dugout, but no one’s there. His catcher’s mitt is empty; it feels as if it should have a ball in it, two balls. He tries to focus, to make something appear, and it doesn’t. Maybe this isn’t a dream after all, but why is he here? How did he get here, and where the hell is everyone else?   
  
He walks out to the mound; maybe the jersey will sprout into Kobori or something—except it’s not the number eight; it’s the number seven. Kise’s jersey. A sick sense of dread fills Kasamatsu; where is Kise? Where’s Kobori? Who had been pitching? Who—  
  
The sound of the squeal of brakes outside of Kasamatsu’s window jerks him up and awake. It had been a dream; Kise, jersey nowhere to be found, is curled up next to him, taking up most of the mound. What had all of that meant? It’s stupid to ascribe too much to dreams, more than what’s been floating around conscious and subconscious thought, anyway. He’s worried about Kise, sure; who wouldn’t be after that leg injury? But that’s not just it. It doesn’t do much good to think about it in this kind of manner and when he’s this fucking tired, anyway.  
  
“Senpai?”  
  
Oh, shit. Kise’s not as light of a sleeper as Kasamatsu, but he still probably can’t deal with Kasamatsu shifting against him this much and the sounds of the street outside.  
  
“Go back to sleep.”  
  
Kise yawns, looking like he really wants to comply but narrowing his eyes at Kasamatsu.  
  
“I just had a weird dream. About baseball.”  
  
“Oh,” says Kise, snuggling against him and trying to pull him back down to the bed; eventually Kasamatsu gives in (he doesn’t want to think about it too much right now).  
  
“You can tell me in the morning,” says Kise.  
  
Maybe they’ll both have forgotten by then. That’s a long shot, for Kasamatsu especially; still it’s worth a try to forget, to have more peasant dreams, Kise batting behind him in the lineup, two-three; Kise lacing a double that bring him home, Kise firing a strike, a new pitch he’d picked up effortlessly.


	93. murahimu, bf shirt

When Tatsuya wakes up the thermostat’s set way down to freezing, though he supposes considering it’s Arizona that it’s probably refreshing for Atsushi (and, unlike in his house, he doesn’t have to pay for it). It’s cold and he doesn’t want to move out from under the covers, but ideally Atsushi would still be here. He’s in the shower; at least the water’s running, and Tatsuya struggles into a sitting position, wrapping the blankets tighter around him. His suitcase is all the way across the room (and all the clothes in there are probably colder than the center of a carton of ice cream) but Atsushi’s shirt is next to him on the bed, and when Tatsuya touches it it’s still warm.  
  
He puts it on, rolling up the sleeves until they don’t dangle off the ends of his wrists, pulling it closed across his chest rather than buttoning it. He’s still a little cold, but the shirt helps, warming and covering him, and it smells like Atsushi. It’s nice, Tatsuya thinks, burrowing back under the covers and dozing back off.  
  
“Tatsuya, hey.”  
  
Atsushi’s hair is still wet, dripping on the towel around his shoulders; he’s wearing his suit pants and nothing else and that’s a lovely sight to wake up to, especially now that this time around Tatsuya’s a little more actually, well, awake.   
  
“That’s the only shirt I brought.”  
  
So maybe it wouldn’t do to have the Suns’ star player leaving his room with a suit and no shirt in the morning, but, well.   
  
“I’d take one of yours, but.” Atsushi shrugs; they both know that’s essentially impossible.   
  
Tatsuya sighs, taking off the shirt, exposing his bare chest to the air before he pulls the covers back up. It seems a little bit warmer in the room (though the sound of the air conditioner running cuts through the background), especially when Atsushi eases back into bed with him, practically radiating warmth like a space heater. He unrolls the cuffs of the shirt, but doesn’t put it on right away, draping it over the bedside lamp.   
  
“Got other plans?”  
  
“For now, maybe,” says Atsushi. “But I want breakfast.”  
  
Whether he means that literally or not is unclear, from the way he keeps one foot dangling off the bed and then the way he kisses Tatsuya, rough and wanting with his mouth open and hand cupping Tatsuya’s chin, fingers sweeping back over Tatsuya’s jawline. But that’s fine; Tatsuya’s okay with either option.


	94. murahimu, merfolk au

Normally, Atsushi wouldn’t let anyone catch him. He’s been swimming through these waters his whole life, knows how to navigate them up and down, avoid humans with their nets and rods and hooks, stay out of the territories of aggressive schools of fish. He was born for the saltwater but he can live in rivers, so long as he lets them drain him out to sea once in a while and get his fill there. There are fish that do that, salmon who swim upstream to breed; Atsushi’s pretty sure there’s no inborn cycle forcing this on him. It’s just the way he prefers it, the quiet of the river, swimming through the middle of fields and cities and highways.  
  
He’s seen this human before from his vantage point in the reeds, where his hair blends in enough with the green of the plants and the water that he’s not seen unless you’re really looking for him. The human is always sitting on the edge of the river with a net, always waiting for something, patient. He’s very pretty, posing as if he knows someone’s watching, mole on the side of his face, beautiful mouth. He is still a human though, behind all that beauty is probably the same human entitlement to the entire earth that leads them to destroy it, wanton cruelty that they don’t even realize.   
  
Atsushi lets this human catch him anyway. At the very least, he’ll figure out how to free himself; at the most he’ll get to talk to him. Get to see his face make some other expression, figure out who he is and why he’s here. (Not like Atsushi cares, but he’s kind of bored right now.) He lets the current carry him, catches his fingers on the netting, and tugs until the human hauls him out.  
  
He’s strong enough to lift Atsushi all the way out, even though he’s small (large for a human, perhaps, but noticeably smaller than Atsushi, so small). He looks disappointed almost, as if this net, big enough for merfolk, does not contain what he’s looking for. He masks that with polite questions and introductions, apologies and an acknowledgement that he’d been hoping to catch something else. He says trout, but it’s an obvious lie, one that Atsushi isn’t going to call him on just yet. Better for this human not to know he knows.   
  
He lets Atsushi go without asking for anything, demanding a wish (as if Atsushi could grant it) or trying to tag him like those so-called conservators do. Atsushi doesn’t say as much, but he might come back. To talk with the human a little more, dig a little deeper.


	95. murahimu, soul in a jar

“Why’d he go to a Christian high school, anyway?” says Atsushi.   
  
Alex sighs. Tatsuya’s soul is swirling around in its jar; she’s going to need to reconstruct his body now and that takes fucking work. It’s not like demons can automatically create physical forms, especially not when they’ve inhabited one for so long the way Tatsuya has that it’s become part of the way they view themselves, part of the way others view them. Tatsuya had made it through two years of Christian high school, yes, but he’d aroused the suspicion of a certain priest who’d chased him across the ocean in an attempt to exorcize the body. The damn fool hadn’t realized that the body was Tatsuya’s creation; there had never been some pure original Tatsuya Himuro who would awaken once Tatsuya’s soul had been taken out.   
  
Demons aren’t so forgiving; until someone has wronged them or unless they’re under orders from a human master they can’t harm humans, but now Tatsuya’s got full range to exact his revenge, no longer bound by a certain section of magical restrictions. If they can restore him, which. Alex hasn’t done anything like this in a very long time.   
  
“Tatsuya likes a challenge,” Alex says, glancing pointedly at his soul in the jar.   
  
Without concrete form, it can’t show the fake contrition that Tatsuya loves so much, and fuck. They need him back.   
  
“Did his physical form leave anything?”  
  
Atsushi sighs and reaches into his pocket. The finger, the original finger grafted to the magic, the closest to a real Tatsuya Himuro that there ever would be. The ring, its protections not enough for whatever nasty spell the priest had come up with. She’s probably going to need Taiga for this, too. And a lot of water.   
  
“Is it,” says Atsushi, and then he bites his lip.  
  
Alex has never seen Atsushi truly worried before, but she can tell the emotion when she sees it, the way he sets down the soul jar so tenderly. Tatsuya can say all he want about how demons shouldn’t be loved, but the counterpoint continues to be proven every day, and not just by her. She pats Atsushi’s shoulder.  
  
“Don’t worry. We’ll have Tatsuya back in no time.”  
  
Atsushi nods, halting but determined and sure. Alex fishes out her phone to text Taiga; the explanation can wait until he’s here. Until now, they can watch Tatsuya on the table and gather everything they need (thankfully, spellbooks are all on the internet now so she doesn’t have to wait; the longer between the destruction and reconstruction, the less effective it is). And then they’ll have him back, physical form and all.


	96. murahimu, vodka

Tatsuya’s always pushing at the limits, smuggling in things that he shouldn't have, especially as a member of the student council (he claims to not hold himself above the law, and it’s not like he doesn’t overlook other students’ transgressions when he’s feeling generous or like the school rules are dumb; so far he hasn’t been caught or if he has his pretty face and excuses about being a foreigner can get him by). Atsushi’s pretty sure he’d be baking pot brownies if he knew the right kind of dealer, even considering his fairly deep understanding of the differences between American and Japanese weed culture.   
  
But he’s got most of a handle of expensive vodka in the trunk under his bed and he’s drinking some from a bottle in the common room right now, giving no indication of being drunk. No flushed face, no loose words, no large gestures, no reticence. He just is, sipping his vodka like it’s the water that’s supposed to be there.  
  
“Thirsty, Atsushi?”  
  
Atsushi shrugs; he doesn’t like any of the liquor he's tried. A sweet cocktail might be nice, but he’s never had one, or a chocolate beer; but he’ll reserve his opinion until he tries one. Still, this is more of a dare and Atsushi’s no chicken. He takes a sip from the bottle.  
  
The vodka goes down easier than he’d been expecting, smooth in his throat but still burning and numbing at the inside of his mouth. He doesn’t visibly wince, at which Tatsuya seems pleased.   
  
He’s had half the bottle by the time they go to bed and still seems no worse for wear; his breath is disgusting, lips numb; his kisses are a little bit looser and he’s dropping a little bit more of his facade, but Atsushi’s more in line with the idea that he’s using alcohol as an excuse to be more open. He’s still in control; he wouldn’t cede it to the vodka like this. And he’s still the same guy pushing Atsushi to the bed, still the same exacting touches on Atsushi’s skin. Who’s he fooling? It’s not even himself, but that’s not Atsushi's problem. If it takes some alcohol for Tatsuya to pretend he’s getting through his issues, maybe that will translate to really getting through them. Atsushi’s not going to wait around forever for that, but if Tatsuya smiles at him like this more, it might be worth it to conjure up some more patience.


	97. murahimu, atsushi in a dress

“Come here, Atsushi,” Tatsuya says.   
  
Atsushi obeys, gathering his skirt and standing up from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, and God he is a vision. The dress, long on anyone, that had to be let out to make foot-length on him, nearly dragging on the ground; the spaghetti straps revealing his tanned shoulders from spending all that time shirtless on the beach; the gigantic wingspan; the dress’s high waist. His hair’s still tangled and let out, brushing his shoulder blades (Tatsuya wants to see how long he’ll go without cutting it, how long the nuisance of actually getting up and cutting his hair outweighs the nuisance of his hair getting everywhere; so far it’s held a good deal).   
  
And he’s got no makeup on, either. Tatsuya doesn’t have much experience with it himself, but putting on lipstick can’t be that hard; he’s seen his mother do it often enough, and the salespeople at Sephora hadn’t looked at him too curiously when he’d bought several different shades of eggplant purple lipstick. It’s darker than Atsushi’s hair and eyes, and Tatsuya doesn’t know much about matching skin undertones or any of that but it’ll look good with his summer tan, and something that matched him exactly (other than, like, eye makeup) would look too weird, like something out of some kids’ cartoon.   
  
He uncaps the first lipstick, staring at the color.   
  
“What do you think?”  
  
Atsushi shrugs. “Looks good to me.”  
  
Tatsuya twists it, enough for the color to poke out farther from the end, and then applies it, brushing over Atsushi’s lip. Atsushi nearly jerks back.  
  
“That tickles.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
His hand hadn’t slipped too much; it’s all still within the bounds of Atsushi’s soft lips, their usual shade of pink covered with the dark purple, and it really does look good with the hair, the eyes, the skin, the dress. Tatsuya wants to stop and kiss him, but that would just ruin the lipstick. He carefully paints around the edges, filling them in with purple until they’re totally covered. It’s not that much in terms of faces full of makeup, but Atsushi looks different. In a good way, a pretty way.   
  
“Let me see.”  
  
Tatsuya ducks out of the way, watching Atsushi stare at himself in the mirror. He squints, and then gathers his hair back, pulling it away from his face and neck. A ponytail isn’t going to cut it here, but they have pins and clips to put it in some sort of updo, but Tatsuya will let Atsushi handle that. He’ll just watch.


	98. takamido, karate bear

Karate Bear stares up at Takao from the table, and Takao stares right back. It’s stupid to engage in a staring contest with a stuffed animal who doesn’t have eyelids (Takao’s sister is constantly “beating” her own dolls by laying them down to make their eyes close, and, well, they do end up closing their eyes first, regardless of circumstance) or a stuffed animal at all, but, well. Despite the beady little plastic eyes, Karate Bear is kind of cute. The first time Takao had seen it he’d thought it was mostly ridiculous, though not so much as many of Midorima’s other lucky items. Now, though, what he feels is—fucking stupid, but kind of, well, jealousy.  
  
Midorima’s spent all day paying attention to Karate Bear, checking on it in his bag or his desk; Takao’s kind of shocked Midorima had left Karate Bear with him while he went to the bathroom, though, well. At least Midorima trusts him this far. It’s stupider to be jealous of a stuffed animal than it is to stare it down, honestly; it just goes to show that Takao is entirely ill-equipped for this situation. Liking Midorima, of all people! It makes no sense, but these things never do, and here he is, annoyed that a stupid bear is getting more attention from Midorima than he is.   
  
“Takao,” says Midorima, appearing in the doorway.  
  
“Don’t worry; your boy’s safe and sound.”  
  
He picks up Karate Bear and hands it over; so he’s making sure their fingers touch on purpose, so what? Midorima notices it, too; he nearly fumbles the bear, and, well, that’s interesting. Takao almost tells himself aloud not to read too much into it. It’s just a touch, static maybe (he hadn’t felt anything), the shock of that. Midorima’s not too itno physical affection, closeness, even with his friends.   
  
“Thank you,” Midorima says, and it’s almost a smile, directed at Takao and not at Karate Bear.  
  
If Takao were a lesser man, he would stick his tongue out at the bear to ask him who’s winning now? But Takao is not quite so immature, despite what Miyaji and Midorima seem to think sometimes. He’s not going to gloat or be a sore winner; this isn’t much of a prize anyway. He can do better than an almost-smile from Midorima, at least before the day is over. That’s his challenge to himself, and besides tomorrow Midorima will have a new lucky item and Takao will still be here.


	99. nijihimu, poltergeist in the mirror

The mirror doesn’t break or ripple when Tatsuya passes through it; it just exists, flat, around him; on the other side there's no hole in the shape of his body. It’s odd to think about, but then isn’t all of magic? Difficult to explain, difficult to replicate, difficult to describe.   
  
The writing in this mirror is all backwards and it will tire Tatsuya’s eye to try and read it; that’s not why he’s here, though. It’s the poltergeist, the face that appears overlaid on top of his when he fixes his hair in the morning or checks out his outfit. He’s not malicious; he would have done worse, screwed with Tatsuya’s appearance in the mirror or something, if he was. Or perhaps he’s less of the usual kind of poltergeist and simply trapped here. Tatsuya breathes in.  
  
“Please, show yourself. I mean no harm.”  
  
He waits, standing and staring straight forward, and there it is, motion in his peripheral vision. He moves his head slowly, and there is the poltergeist. That same face, fully featured, on a head and a body, a man who looks more ordinary than the usual poltergeist. Cute, Tatsuya thinks, but then some spirits are supposed to be appealing in that way.   
  
“I haven’t been bothering you?” says the poltergeist. “Sorry, I just keep looking out and…you’re so beautiful, I had to.”  
  
Tatsuya blinks. He knows he’s attractive, but to a poltergeist?   
  
“I’m not being, like, creepy,” says the poltergeist. “I don’t look when you’re not looking in the mirror, but. Shit.”  
  
Tatsuya laughs. “That’s really it?”  
  
The poltergeist nods. “This mirror isn’t a really fun place to be, and when I see you it just…spices things up I guess.”   
  
“Well,” Tatsuya says.  
  
This certainly complicates things; does he want to be let out? At peace? Tatsuya’s okay with a spirit in his mirror; there’s a sound barrier between their worlds after all, and he really does seem to be harmless for the moment. But he is cute, and if he wants—something—is Tatsuya really in the position to turn it down? Would he push for it, even, before he releases the poltergeist from this attachment?  
  
“You're pretty cute, too,” Tatsuya says, finally. “You can show yourself a little more.”  
  
The poltergeist’s face colors a beautiful rosy shade. Tatsuya smiles, and holds out his hand for the poltergeist to shake. His grip is firm; his hand is warm and rough.


	100. murahimu, arcade

Atsushi won’t admit how competitive he gets, but that doesn’t mean Tatsuya doesn’t know. It also doesn’t mean he’s going to back down anytime soon at his own pursuit of turning tokens into tickets, kicking Atsushi’s ass at Dance Dance Revolution, or anything else. Even if the prizes here are cheesy, there’s some candy and some cute stuffed animals, and that part doesn’t even matter. What matters is victory, of the consistent assault on machines, picking the lucky one or the right one or playing to his own strengths just as Atsushi plays to his.   
  
“This is boring,” Atsushi says.  
  
“Do you give up?” says Tatsuya.  
  
Atsushi glares at him, but goes back for another round of the shooting game where he always seems to hold the plastic gun steady, no matter how much it vibrates. Tatsuya makes his way back over to the skee-ball machines; he ought to be able to put together another decent run at this. Several rounds later, he’s got almost as many tickets as will fit in his pocket. Across the arcade, Atsushi is jamming on some pinball machine; the ticket strip is folding on the ground where the machine has pushed it out. Fuck. Skee-ball is too slow; Tatsuya needs something faster.  
  
Mini-basketball is less bang for your buck and will probably mess up his actual shot; he sucks at pinball and Duck Hunt. But there, at the far end, is the claw game; there are vouchers for prizes, fancy headphones and MP3 players, and there, in the middle, a roll of game tickets. Oh, yeah.   
  
Tatsuya’s first two tries net him absolutely nothing; he knows this shit’s rigged, though. He’s just got to use that and change the odds to his favor; it’s easier said than done but that doesn’t mean it’s not doable. HE sticks in ther equired tokens; he’s running short. He moves the claw forward and back, right over the roll of tickets, and then lowers it. The claws close around the roll; the machine lifts it up, dangling, slipping—it falls right over the chute and down. Fuck yes.   
  
They hand over their tickets at the end to the annoyed-looking teenager behind the counter; it takes him twenty minutes to verify the totals but they basically have their pick of the lot. Tatsuya’s got more, and he uses it to buy up all the candy and a couple of packs of baseball cards for himself. Atsushi dumps his all on a giant Rilakkuma plushie that’s probably actually worth something, and definitely very cute. He presses it into Tatsuya’s arms, but Tatsuya knows part of the reason he’d gotten it was for himself.   
  
They share the candy on the drive back.


	101. nijimayu, library

Technically, phones aren’t allowed in the university library, but that doesn’t stop anyone. If someone’s being disruptive, the librarian will usually tack that onto their list of offenses, but as long as you’re discrete they’ll pretend not to see you. Which is how Shuuzou’s operating right now, flipping through the photos on his phone. Facebook stalking his older classmate is kind of uncool, but Facebook stalking his older classmate who he’s been on two dates with is probably fine. This shit’s all public; Shuuzou hasn’t even friended him yet.  
  
Which, he probably should. He hits the obnoxious blue button and resumes scrolling through Mayuzumi’s tagged photos. A lot of them are taken by Akashi, which just means Shuuzou’s allowed to see them because he and Akashi are friends; they’re regular high school things but still kind of cute, the scowl on Mayuzumi’s face or the way he’s almost ducking out of frame. Shuuzou reminds himself to talk to Akashi about his excellent photography skills at some point in the future, which between finals and his job and (hopefully) more time with Mayuzumi he’ll probably forget anyway, but still.  
  
“What are you looking at?”  
  
Mayuzumi has a way of just appearing, like a ghost out of thin air; it’s not the same kind of creepy as Kuroko, a little bit less intentional but still kind of. Weird.  
  
“Nothing,” says Shuuzou.  
  
“Why are you on my Facebook page?”  
  
“I wanted to friend you,” says Shuuzou. “What, I can’t look at your tagged photos?”  
  
Mayuzumi stares at him, coolly, quite unimpressed. Shuuzou stares back. Two can play at that game, and he’s had enough experience with Tatsuya psyching him out that this doesn’t really faze him.   
  
“I sent you a friend request,” says Shuuzou.  
  
“I see,” says Mayuzumi.  
  
The librarian is glaring in their direction, and Shuuzou hastily turns back to his history textbook. Wars and battles and dates he can’t remember; Mayuzumi pulls out what is definitely not assigned reading for a class and begins to turn the pages (Shuuzou wonders sometimes if he actually reads those things or if he’s memorized them all by now, if he’s so familiar with the genre that he’s transcended actually reading or some shit). They wait until the librarian has busied herself with someone who needs help, and then Shuuzou speaks again.  
  
“Want to grab dinner?” Shuuzou says, as breezily and casually as he can muster.  
  
“All right,” says Mayuzumi, after a pause. “But I’m picking the place.”


	102. nijimayu, three piece suit

“This is a bit too extravagant,” says Mayuzumi, wrinkling his nose at the suit.  
  
“Why? It’s not too expensive,” says Nijimura. “Besides, it’s my treat. I’m the one who has to go to this fancy dinner, so it’s only fair—”  
  
“You think my best isn’t enough?” says Mayuzumi, perhaps more sharp than he’d intended but Nijimura gets the gist of it.  
  
“That’s not what I said, and it’s not what I meant. I’m trying to treat you because I know you don’t like this shit very much. And, honestly, it’s a little bit of a treat for me, too. Get to see you in something like that, perks me up, distracts me a little at dinner, you know?”  
  
Mayuzumi lifts an eyebrow, and Nijimura shrugs.  
  
“I’m not going to force you to wear it, or try it on even. But, you know. I'd like it if you did.”  
  
Blunt, to the point; Mayuzumi can respect that. And Nijimura’s a pretty honest guy; there’s no need to lie or disguise the truth with him which is a welcome change from the way things are with other people (not that Mayuzumi isn’t in that number, but sometimes he needs a breather from himself, too).   
  
“Okay,” Mayuzumi says.  
  
Nijimura knows his size; still Mayuzumi’s a little bit surprised when the suit fits him so well. a little loose in the legs, but that’s how he likes it; the color is reminiscent of his high school uniform but when he puts it on, the pinstripes take care of all of that. And the vest, drawn in at the waist, very handsome, even on him. The grey doesn’t clash too badly with his hair, and it looks almost adult in a way Mayuzumi can’t make himself look sometimes (if he’s admitting it; grey hair only gets him so far, the beard he’d failed at growing only a little farther, and it had been too ugly to keep). When he steps out of the changing room, Nijimura grins; Mayuzumi halfway expects him to let out a low whistle (not that he’s disappointed Nijimura doesn’t; his appreciation is quite evident).   
  
“Good?” says Mayuzumi. “I think I can wear it for a night.”  
  
Nijimura nods. “You’ll force yourself to, huh?”  
  
“It’s grown on me,” says Mayuzumi with a shrug. “Could be worse.”  
  
Nijimura’s mood seems to have picked up as they walk back home, shopping bag under his arm. He’s easy to please sometimes, but come to think of it is that really a bad thing?


	103. kikasa, spies au

  
“Tell us everything you know about Kise Ryouta.”  
  
What the fuck. Kise, Kasamatsu’s boyfriend with the cushy government job—not quite so cushy, because he travels a lot—Kise, who’s a little bit cagey, Kise getting mixed up in this shit? Kasamatsu says nothing. He feels someone yank his blindfold tighter and he screams.  
  
“Scream all you want to,” says the same voice as before. “The room’s soundproof.”  
  
They could be lying, bluffing, screwing with him; he could be in the middle of the outdoors—except the air doesn’t feel like it; the room is too quiet; there’s no outdoor smell. Kasamatsu doesn’t know what this could be, Yakuza or foreign spies or some government thing; Kise’s gone rogue or turncoat—it could be neither. Who knows what Kise really does? Kasamatsu’s never seen his fucking bank statement. Anything he says could be used against him, against Kise; anything could put Kise in harm’s way.  
  
“The former model?”  
  
“Your boyfriend. Who used to model.”  
  
“What boyfriend? I’m single.”  
  
“Explain who it is who comes to your apartment at all hours, any day.”  
  
“My brother. Tall, blond, you might—”  
  
“Your brother is of average height and has brown hair, which he does not dye. We know who you are, Kasamatsu Yukio. Lying is a waste of everyone’s time, yours included because it is ticking down.”  
  
The voice sounds bored.  
  
“If you know, why are you asking me? Let me go.”  
  
“We know about you. Not about your boyfriend. He’s the one we want; have I not made myself clear?”  
  
Kasamatsu closes his eyes and closes his mouth. He’s not saying shit. Maybe they’ll let him go if he gives Kise away, but can he live like that? Can he let that happen? Kasamatsu’s not sure he can, not sure he wouldn’t—he and Kise aren’t even on a first-name basis, and this is real. This isn’t some video game or drama on TV; it’s no dream he can wake up from. This is real; this is his life. Kise might never know about this (but he probably will; they’ll probably use it to hurt him, whoever the fuck they are).   
  
“Take off the blindfold, and then we’ll talk.”  
  
“You think you can bargain with us? What leverage do you have?”  
  
“I have the information. I know where he is.”  
  
“It’s funny,” the voice says. “They all seem to offer that up for such a small price. Simpletons, you civilians.”  
  
“Well, we’re not getting anywhere like this, are we?”  
  
“You’re not,” says the voice. “But I am.”


	104. akakuro, hogwarts au

The invisibility cloak begins to wear out around fifth year, but Kuroko’s already learning to disillusion himself. Charms is not his best subject, but there are some pieces of it that he can grasp, and the theory and practice behind turning one’s self invisible makes total sense to him, unlike summoning objects from across the room or cleaning the dishes with a wave of his wand. Still, it’s much easier to just pull on the cloak and let it conceal him in the shadows; there’s so little light as it is that it shouldn’t matter.  
  
He’s just not expecting to find Akashi in the Restricted Section, too. He’s quiet, but Akashi’s looking for something, and in the moonlight, perhaps a glimmer—Kuroko’s always silently scoffed at the theory that Akashi’s eyes have magical properties in and of themselves, that they can see through walls or invisibility cloaks or what have you. He’s just quite perceptive and he can be a little creepy, and students have nothing better to do than to spread rumors.   
  
“Do you have permission to be here?” Akashi says, thumbing over the spine of a book in the case.  
  
Kuroko takes the cloak off. “Do you?”  
  
(Akashi should be out on prefect’s rounds, if he should be out of bed at all, which he most likely shouldn’t. There’s no provision that Kuroko knows of about wandering around the library, especially the restricted section without a note from a professor.)  
  
Akashi does not answer the question directly. “Perhaps I saw a light from the library while I was performing my prefect’s duties. And I went into the restricted section and found you, Kuroko, the model student.”  
  
“Do you think the professors would believe you?”  
  
“Over you? Probably,” says Akashi.  
  
“What do you want?” says Kuroko (because it’s Akashi, and he always wants something, even though he’s never really had to want for anything).  
  
Akashi hums. “Of course, you won’t tell anyone about this.”  
  
Kuroko nods; he’s got no excuse to be out late finding prefects wandering in the library.   
  
“And,” says Akashi.   
  
He stands on the step stool, for a moment Kuroko thinks Akashi’s going to make him carry back a heavy book of some sort. But Akashi’s just asserting himself, the widened gap between their heights. His fingers, cool and dry, grip Kuroko’s chin and tilt it up, and he leans down to kiss Kuroko, briefly, softly.  
  
“Thank you,” he says, when Kuroko pulls away. “You’ve been very accommodating.”  
  
Kuroko knows a dismissal when he sees it; he pulls the cloak back on and hastens back toward Gryffindor tower.


	105. murakise, magic potion

“I’m selling the set for half-price,” says Momoi, leaning over the countertop. “Kill you, make you immortal. Final sale, no returns or exchanges.”  
  
Kise doubts that if he dies he’ll have a form corporeal enough to return the potions, let alone have haggling for spare change in a refund on his mind. Still, the offer is tantalizing; from what he’s heard immortality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and yet. If he dies he might not care.   
  
“They both do the same thing?”  
  
Momoi nods. “But Ki-chan, I really wouldn’t advise taking them yourself.”  
  
Kise pouts; Momoi really shouldn’t tell him what to do. The bottles sit there on the counter, like those little ginger shots you buy at the grocery store, clear bottle and black cap, green liquid inside looking like food coloring or one of those super juices promising to cleanse your digestive tract.   
  
“Murasakicchi, what do you think?”  
  
“Hm?” says Murasakibara.  
  
He’d been listening to the whole thing from where he’d been pretending to browse through the magical plants; Kise’s not falling for his shit. Momoi isn’t, either, and Murasakibara sighs.   
  
“I don’t want to die or be immortal. But you can buy them; it’s your choice.”  
  
Isn’t it? They’re winking up at Kise, tantalizing. The chance for real immortality, not immortality through fame, which won’t matter after Kise's fucking dead even if he comes back as a ghost, a someone who once was. Immortality, the chance to learn every spell in the world, to be the best. On top. (IT’s lonely at the top, though, isn't it?)   
  
“Immortality would get boring,” Kise says, pushing the potions back. “And it’s not worth the chance.”  
  
“Good choice,” says Momoi, pushing her hair back over her shoulders.  
  
*  
  
Murasakibara is quiet on the way home, more than usual, not even complaining about the weight of the spellbooks he’d bought, carried in the bag slung over his arm. He holds Kise’s hand the whole way, his grip tighter than usual.  
  
“You didn’t think I was really going to?” says Kise.  
  
“I never know with you,” says Murasakibara. “I don’t like it when you do that stuff, or when you say it, even if it’s none of my business. I like you as you are.”  
  
As he is? How much of Kise isn’t what he’s absorbed from other people? How much does Murasakibara see? There’s apparently something, because he captures Kise’s mouth in a kiss, kind of at an awkward angle, but neither of them really cares.


	106. murahimu, river delta

They’re a mile from where the river flows into the sea, saltwater pushing back up with the tides as the fresh water pushes back down. The land is flooded and sinking, as it always is, sliding along; that is the way of these things. The waters recede and then they swell again; the levees break in the rainy season and they migrate.   
  
Right now, though, the water’s prime for fishing, for catfish and shellfish, the clams and crawdads they can wrestle out of the shallow mud. Tatsuya’s dipped his cup in and raised it to his lips, before he spits it back out and dumps the contents back into the river.   
  
“Tide’s not in enough yet. Fish pickings are going to be slim.”  
  
Atsushi sighs; he hates waiting. There’s still a chance of decent fish, maybe not the largest but adequate for eating and selling, a pound or so of mussels, not much but enough to scrape by on, and they have more than enough. There’s some saying Tatsuya keeps referring to, something in a different tongue about a bad day of fishing, but Atsushi can’t remember it right now and it’s not important enough to ask about.  
  
“What else do you want to do?”  
  
“Wait,” says Tatsuya.  
  
Atsushi wades into the water, letting his feet sink into the mud just a little bit. The feeling’s a little bit gross at first but he gets used to it, casts the line out, He can hold his arms here; he can wait a while for a bite, a decent-sized fish rather than a little one he’ll just throw back, not enough meat on the bones to justify the weight yet, let it grow a little bigger and fall for the same trick of the hook again (he’s seen other fish with torn-up lips, caught them just the same; they forget too quickly the causes of their pain).   
  
Tatsuya’s kind of a hypocrite; he joins Atsushi a few minutes later, wading out into deeper waters, almost into his waist, flicking his own rod to let his bait bob at the surface on the float. Atsushi feels a tug, hard and strong, on his own rod, and begins to reel in. Steady, let the rod bend, steady; he pulls back as the fish on the other end pulls forward, and then finally, the fish is flopping at the surface, above the surface, dangling in the air from Atsushi’s hook. Good size, a river trout.   
  
He doesn’t tell Tatsuya he’d told him so (because, well, literally, he hadn’t) but it’s still pretty damn satisfying.


	107. aokaga, mcdonalds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasnt thinking about it at all at the time, but this pairs p well with the waffle house one

“You’re gonna have to pay for cab fare,” says Taiga, munching on the third burger.  
  
By this point he’s stopped automatically reaching for the top bun to take out the pickles, just shoveling burgers into his mouth, occasionally offering one over to Daiki on the opposite side of the table.  
  
“Why? Because you’re going to be too fucking sick to pull out your wallet? I can reach into your pocket.”  
  
“I spent the last of my cash on the burgers.”  
  
“You spent your cab fare on this shit,” Daiki says, not even bothering to raise his voice.  
  
“I’m hungry!”  
  
Taiga continues to shovel food into his mouth; at this point Daiki’s amazed all over again how much he can eat, how they’d eaten actual dinner half an hour ago and Taiga can just down Bic Mac after Big Mac effortlessly. He tries not to think about nutrition, about everything through the roof (sodium, fat, calories, carbs, all those fucking preservative chemicals) and how Taiga seems to suffer no ill effects (other than, you know, emptying out his entire wallet). Daiki sighs, but continues nibbling on his own burger. It is pretty good for McDonalds’s, he’ll admit. But it ain’t that good.   
  
“Fine, but you owe me,” says Daiki.  
  
“I’ll pay you back tomorrow when I have more cash,” says Taiga.   
  
“When we get home.”  
  
“I’m your boyfriend. I don’t cook or perform sexual favors for fucking cab fare.”  
  
“You’re the one who suggested that.”  
  
Taiga gives him a very unimpressed look, continue to chew on one of the last few burgers.   
  
“Taiga…” Daiki’s whining now; he doesn’t care.   
  
“It’s late; I’m tired; maybe I’ll do both for you tomorrow and then I’ll pay you back after I go out.”  
  
“You're the best,” says Daiki.  
  
“I’m doing this because I want to,” says Taiga. “Like I said, I’m your boyfriend. I like cooking you food, and I like when you like it, and you’re the only person I want to have sex with.”  
  
This is very sweet, but they’re also in McDonald’s; Daiki feels his face growing hot; he wants to stare into his Sprite and he also wants to kiss Taiga until he forgets about the remaining Big Macs.   
  
“Could have chosen a more romantic spot,” Daiki mutters, looking up at him.  
  
Taiga’s blushing; at least he realizes it. It hasn’t stopped him from eating, though; Daiki supposes that there’s not much that will.


	108. haikise, time travelers au

It’s a damn good thing Ryouta steps outside to smoke a cigarette in the morning, because he catches Shougo downstairs, grinning up at the building, wearing very old-fashioned clothes with what looks like an antique katana in his hand. Knowing Shougo it probably is some priceless artifact, stolen from several centuries ago because Shougo can’t keep his goddamn time travel to nearby times, stolen bills, setting up things in trust for himself.   
  
“Go big or go home,” says Shougo, holding out the sword. “I did both, though.”  
  
It is lovely; Ryouta knows nothing about weapons but it’s gorgeous to look at, heavy in his hands and probably sharp, made to slice and stab. He’s almost afraid to ask if Shougo had robbed a samurai on the side of the road or something (only he would be so foolish) but the week’s worth of beard on his face and the grey roots showing below his black hair tell enough. He’d managed to worm his way in somewhere, probably get a job as a servant, and steal it out of the house or something (though, if there’s a roadside robbery, that doesn’t mean Ryouta doesn’t want to hear about it).  
  
“What are you going to do with it?” Ryouta says, stabbing his cigarette dead on the railing and pushing open the door (it won’t do to be seen like this).  
  
“I dunno,” says Shougo. “Can’t sell it, but I don’t really want to.”  
  
(He probably could on some artifact black market, but if he’d stolen it already then it’s not registered or verified and he’ll have a hell of a time with it; giving it to a museum isn’t Shougo’s style, but he can’t seriously suggest putting it on display or actually using it.)  
  
Shougo props the sword up on the foyer wall. “You got coffee?”  
  
“I was about to make some for me.”  
  
“I’ve been away for a week; I’m sick of drinking ancient tea,” says Shougo, plopping down on the couch.   
  
“I’m not your servant,” says Ryouta, but he walks over to the coffee maker and turns it on.   
  
“God, I miss everything about modern life.”  
  
“Including me?”  
  
“Full of ourselves, aren’t we,” says Shougo.  
  
“You’re sitting on my couch, in dirty clothes, about to drink my coffee; who’s the one who’s full of himself here?”  
  
“It’s not full of myself when I got something as cool as that,” says Shougo. “Then it’s, like, justified."  
  
Ryouta rolls his eyes.


	109. murahimu, show you

“Show me,” Himuro says again, his pencil halting on the paper. “Sorry.”  
  
The smile he gives makes it very clear (if it hadn’t already been obvious) that Himuro is not, in fact, sorry. He’s not sorry at all; he’s just flirting again, the same way he looks up from under those pretty eyelashes and asks if Murasakibara can help him with his kanji, that he's forgotten the strokes or needs help sounding something else. When he actually needs help with something, Himuro’s the last person who will actually ask for it.  
  
His artistic impressions aren’t horrible; they’re about average and he’s trying to follow the directions printed in the art book on the way over, a certain way of holding the pencil, hatching and cross-hatching the shade. Murasakibara’s is better, if he’s being honest with himself, but Himuro doesn’t seem to really mind for now (unless he’s faking and is secretly like, Michelangelo—which wouldn’t surprise Murasakibara at this point).   
  
“Here,” says Murasakibara, holding Himuro’s hand holding the pencil.   
  
He sketches a rough outline of the sculpture in front of them, kind of ugly but apparently worth a million yen or so, a pretty impressive figure for something that looks like it had been made by someone half asleep and had taken all of forty-five minutes (at the absolute most). Himuro turns the pencil inward, already going for the details; Murasakibara sighs.  
  
“It works better when you start with the outline. Then do the details when you’ve got something to put them on.”  
  
Himuro frowns, looking at the statue and then back, flexing his fingers against the inside of Murasakibara’s hand and moving so that he’s almost under the crook of Murasakibara’s arm. When’s he going to just give it up and admit he wants this? Himuro’s been the one initiating, so Murasakibara’s not going to give him the pleasure of giving in first (it’s hard sometimes, but Murasakibara can wait it out). This kind of flirting is pretty fun, and he’s mostly sure it’s going to head somewhere. Himuro can be cruel, but he’s not the type of person to leave Murasakibara hanging just for the sake of being stubborn.  
  
“Let me show you again,” says Murasakibara, gripping Himuro’s hand a little tighter.  
  
Himuro yields a satisfied smile, flipping the page of his sketchbook over to start anew, focusing on the curves and edges in front of him. This one’s not half-bad, but Murasakibara might as well be picky with it if it means they can stay like this a while longer.


	110. haimayu, garden

It’s funny how a No Trespassing sign often has the opposite effect. Some good citizens will see it and carefully step away from the garden; others won’t be able to resist temptation when they never would have stepped in before. Haizaki’s in that last category; he’ll be the first to admit it. He’s a contrarian who despises rules for the sake of rules and, well. If he’s just in the garden, not screwing around with anything but just standing around, what would be the harm?   
  
He looks at the sign in his hands; he’s supposed to be here now, anyway. He’s not trespassing if he’s been hired, if he’s being paid by this rich dude sipping lemonade who probably has some sort of manual labor fetish. Thinks he’s in a porno, except he hasn’t hit on Haizaki yet (Haizaki, on the other hand, would totally hit on him just to go indoors for a little because the sun is fucking brutal).  
  
“Having trouble with the sign?”  
  
“Nope,” says Haizaki. “I’m good.”   
  
He finds the spot in the ground where it’s supposed to go, plunges it into the dirt and hammers it down. In his peripheral vision, he can see that old creep, Mayuzumi (okay, maybe not that old, probably around Haizaki’s age but he’s acting so fucking delicate and fragile) leaning forward. Haizaki pounds the hammer a few extra times, just for good measure, just so Mayuzumi can have a good view of his biceps.  
  
God, he’s thirsty; his water bottle just happens to be on the porch steps, too. Haizaki sidles over, mallet in one hand. He bends over and groans as he picks up the water bottle; he can feel Mayuzumi’s eyes, as if Mayuzumi wants him to notice.  
  
“Like what you see?” says Haizaki with a grin. "I know I do.”  
  
Mayuzumi purses his thin lips, looking down and trying to hold a veneer of disapproval like a finish tint too dark on a wooden table. It doesn’t quite fit; Haizaki grins wider and sits down on the step.   
  
“Come into the shade,” says Mayuzumi, finally. “Before you catch heatstroke.”  
  
“Gonna offer me some lemonade?”  
  
“You just had water,” says Mayuzumi. “As I said, you can fill up your bottle from the kitchen sink.”  
  
Smug asshole.  
  
“I’m feeling pretty thirsty,” says Haizaki, standing up and leaning over Mayuzumi’s deck chair.   
  
Mayuzumi lets him get close, closer; finally he brings him in for a short kiss, sugar clinging to his lips.


	111. muramidokise, at the beach

Kise and Midorima had complained the whole time about setting up the damn tent, and now that it’s done (and Murasakibara had helped them a little to make it go faster) they want him inside.  
  
“How am I supposed to get tan?” says Murasakibara.  
  
“You’ll get wrinkled if you spend too much time in the sun,” says Kise. “Come inside.”  
  
“And you’ll burn,” Midorima adds.  
  
Midorima burns and Kise thinks he has wrinkles, but Murasakibara will be fine for now. He’s used up half a bottle of sunscreen already, and he’s not going to let the ridiculous amount of money he’d spent go to waste in the shade. Besides, the only real reason to go to the beach is to sleep under the sun instead of indoors. It’s hot and gross and sandy, and he’s going to end up sweaty and annoyed and greasy from the lotion, but if the sun is on his back and his face is buried in a towel on top of the soft sand, he’s got no complaints. He won’t have much of anything, really, because hell be asleep. And if Midorima and Kise don’t want to join him, if they just want the indoors but hot and sandy, well, they can have that.   
  
Murasakibara’s nap lasts maybe an hour and a half; he pulls his phone out of the pocket of his swim trunks and checks the time before rolling over. He’ll probably need to reapply sunscreen soon if he wants to stay out here, and turning his head he can see the tent is still up and Midorima and Kise are underneath, Midorima trying to read a book and Kise talking at him. Murasakibara snorts.  
  
Reapplying sunscreen is going to be annoying, and Midorima needs to be rescued, so he gathers up his towel and walks over to the tent, flopping down on the blanket inside next to Midorima. It’s actually quite cool in the shade; he’ll give Kise and Midorima that.  
  
“Did you enjoy your nap?” says Kise.  
  
Midorima nods. “Read to me, Mido-chin.”  
  
(He and Midorima don’t really have the same taste in books, but it should lull him to sleep and keep Kise from talking too much.)  
  
“Yeah, read to us,” says Kise.  
  
(That’s a little surprising, but it’s cute to see Midorima blush when Kise says it, so whatever.) Murasakibara closes his eyes again, resting his head next to Midorima’s hip, and Midorima begins to read about whaling ships off the English coast.


	112. aomuramido, magic school au

Aomine doesn’t spend much time in the school library, but he’s been dragged here often enough to know where Murasakibara and Midorima’s usual table is, near the back by the heavy theory tomes where Murasakibara can get away with snacking and Midorima can be away from the noisy underclassmen. He’s finally found one of those so-called forbidden books, glared at it long enough for the spell that makes your eyes look away unless that’s what you’re really looking for to stop working. Why they have a book like this at all where students can access it, well, Aomine’s not going to question that much. It’s just made things easier for him, so why should he?  
  
Midorima is busily writing out the answers to some theory homework; Murasakibara is reading what looks like a novel placed inside of a book on advanced runes, his own probably finished homework spilling out of his bag across the table. Thankfully, Akashi’s not with them today, probably got some sort of club to run.   
  
Aomine places the book on the table and sits down across from them, grinning. “Look what I found.”  
  
“Why the hell do you have that?” says Midorima.  
  
Murasakibara looks at it, looks back to the book he’s reading, and then shoves that, still inside the textbook, into his bag.   
  
“So you did get it.”  
  
“I don’t think we should be trying dark magic,” says Midorima, pushing up his glasses.  
  
“We don’t have to actually try it; this is just theory.”  
  
“Yeah, and it tells you how to perform all of the spells,” says Midorima. “I really don’t think this is a good idea, and I don’t know how you found it.”  
  
Aomine rolls his eyes. “Where’s your sense of fun?”  
  
“Causing pain isn’t fun,” says Midorima, and, yeah, he’s got a point but that’s not all dark magic is.   
  
He looks pretty distressed, though, and now Aomine feels bad. He runs a hand through his hair; shit, maybe the book itself is cursed. Murasakibara glares at him and holds Midorima’s hair, shoving the book back toward Aomine.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Aomine says.  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Midorima, too. “It’s just a book.”  
  
(Well, yeah, but it isn’t.)  
  
“I should have considered this more,” says Aomine. “It’s not like I really want to do it; it’s just…”  
  
“I know,” says Midorima.   
  
“You guys want to come with me to put it back?”  
  
Midorima nods; Murasakibara yawns and stretches, following them. Aomine stuffs it back on the bottom shelf, and in a moment the spell is back and he can’t find it, can barely remember exactly what he’d been looking for. Murasakibara kisses his forehead, quite satisfied; maybe Midorima can finish his homework later and they can all leave for now.


End file.
